Forever Fat and Fifteen
by SomethingMoreQ
Summary: Being alive for half a century and drinking blood means that Alfred F. Jones? Is a vampire. Yet here he is, frozen in a mid-puberty limbo, nowhere near the tall, handsome creatures of humanity's finest teen fiction. Being a vampire is not all that it's cracked up to be, and Arthur Kirkland, an ace vampire hunter with a vendetta against all bloodsuckers, is set on making it worse.
1. Act One, Scene One

**Part One-** _ **The Doe**_ **: Act One, Scene One**

* * *

 **…**

" _Near dusk, near a path, near a brook,  
_ _we stopped, I in disquiet and dismay  
_ _for the suffering of someone I loved,  
_ _the doe in her always incipient alarm"_

 **…**

* * *

 **Stratford upon Avon, England**

Snow has long since blanketed the tops of trees, the streets, and the body at the base of the water tower. In the fading light, the limp figure is nothing more than a shadowy dimple in the drifts of snow; unremarkable, unnoticeable, and mistakable for a corpse… until it stirs.

His eyes open, half-lidded and filled with a hazy sort of confusion. He stares blankly at the sky and blinks rapidly as a soft cascade of snowflakes drifts down lazily, ghosting his cheekbones and sticking to his eyelashes. More settle onto the frozen tracks lining his cheeks and add to the layer of ice that clings to his skin. _Am I…_ He looks around once more, at the now-ebony sky and at the grand structure above him, then closes his eyes with a resigned sigh.

 _...still alive._

Flakes dust to the ground when he stands and attempts to straighten his clothing, although his efforts are in vain— the fabric is frozen stiff, just like his flaxen hair, which he discovers when he tries to run his fingers through it. Another sigh escapes his lips as he turns around and reaches out to place his hand flat against the steel of the water tower. The metal begins to groan in his grip, his fingers tightening as he lets his gaze trail up the structure. One hundred seventy-six feet, fifty meters up, yet he's still alive. Unbroken. "I shouldn't've thought any different. Fifth attempt, fail."

A fail, just like the other four attempts with silver, garlic, a gun, and sunlight. He sums up the importance of his survival: "Well, fuck." More snow tumbles to the ground as he shakes his head. "That was it. That's, uh." His voice cracks painfully. "That's all I got." He chuckles once, a sardonic sound, ignoring the new tracks that form on his cheeks. He's tried _everything_ , everything but plunging a stake into his heart, which is not something he'd do; blood makes him squeamish. "Hah."

Even after five decades, the idea, no, reality of the oxymoron never fails to make him smirk. A vampire, sickened at the thought of blood? Tilting his chin up to the night sky, he leans back against the tower and crosses his arms, letting the grin slide from his face. A true novelty, isn't he just that, with his contradictory existence and whatnot…

But who's heard of a vampire like Alfred F. Jones before?

Fans of _Dracula_ , _The Vampire Diaries_ , _Twilight_ , and other vampire-centered works will be sorely disappointed to find out that Alfred— overweight, zitty, bespectacled Alfred— is a 'creature of the dark.' Ooh, fascinating. Somewhere out there, Alfred is sure, there are vampires like the fantasy ones. He's never met any, of course, but he knows that he can't be the only vampire in the world, for that would mean a lot of disappointed fans and, well, who wants a supposedly bad-ass race to be represented by, well, a failure of said race? He is nothing like those fanged, fantastical creatures of fiction with jawlines capable of slicing paper; no one is going to present his or her neck to Alfred and wantonly beg him to, ' _take me_!'

 _Okay, time to go. That's enough wallowing for now,_ Alfred snorts. _I'm not gonna have a top-selling novel detailing my tortured existence and epic love interest anytime soon, so I best get moving._ He pushes himself away from the tower, frowning as the flurry of snow suddenly swirls around his head, peppering his vision with blinding spots of white and… grey? His limbs feel weightless, and the water tower sways dramatically, almost toppling to the ground, or is that Alfred himself who swings precariously? "Woah, that's a little…" A dull _clanggg_ echoes around the clearing as Alfred collapses back into tower, his whole world dipping sideways.

"Uhhh, what," Alfred mumbles sluggishly, blinking rapidly to rid himself of the black dots that splatter his vision. The trees refuse to righten themselves; instead, they elect to make blurry clones of themselves and dance around. "What… what the fuuuck?" Alfred mumbles as he pushes himself back to his feet. His body won't cooperate, and the water tower becomes his much-needed crutch as the world blinks out into blackandbackagain. "Why… oh, wait."

What's it been: three, four, five weeks? That long without feeding? _Well, of course, that'd be it. No wonder I can't do shit. Guess I gotta hunt._

The thought of blood immediately sets his instincts ablaze and causes desire to pulse through his body, scorching his mind until nothing matters but his hunger, his _**thirst**_. The vampire's lips peel back in a tight grimace as an itching sensation fills his mouth, white nubs fangs pushing out of his gums and past his lips. His tongue darts out to lick his canines when venom drips down from his teeth and melts the snow beneath his feet with a _hiss_.

Alfred's pupils contract and widen until the whites of his eyes are no longer visible; they are now gaping holes of dark cobalt that glint when he lifts his chin to scent the air. He can smell spruce, snow, and—from the west— a terribly inviting scent that speaks of warmth and pleasure, only a few hundred meters north of his position.

He crouches low, then leaps into the air. A growl thunders deep in his chest as he moves. The scent of his prey strengthens along with the sounds of rushing water and hooves over rock. Shadowy blurs of crystallized bark and green whiz past in his vision, thinning out slowly until he reaches a clearing, and there he stops, at the edge of the trees, muscles wound taunt.

Near the brook: the doe.

An alluring animal: sleek, chestnut fur blanketing a delicate body, spindly legs, and a white-tufted tail that flashes hello to the world as her ears pivot and her sable nose twitches, searching for danger. She can hear none. But Alfred can hear her heart, veins, and arteries pulsing throughout her body. A drumbeat obscured by flesh, it beats in a manner that is almost promiscuous, loudest at her neck, her breakable neck filled with warm, crimson, rushing liquid so close to the surface of her paper skin. She lowers her head to the brook, sniffing at the water and allowing it to coat her nose with icy droplets.

The vampire's muscles release as the doe breathes out slowly with a small huff, making a small cloud of warmth. She blinks at it curiously, even as death is above her, and reaches out her pink tongue to lick at the condensation…

The doe crashes to the ground. Her mouth is yawned open in a silent scream as her neck is torn apart and blood soaks into the ground. Strings of flesh and muscle barely keep her head from rolling away from her body. A triumphant screech flies above the wind as the vampire clutches the body and plunges his fangs into what is left of the doe's neck, allowing the liquid to pool in his mouth and rush down his throat, slicking his insides with blood. The vampire presses the carcass into his mouth, desperate to consume the warmth of the doe before the cold snatches it away, drinking her life-force with a greedy gurgling as her bones snap beneath his fingers—

" _Ughck_ —!" Alfred retches violently, shoving the body away. He gags and wraps his fingers around his throat as the blood threatens to rise back up his throat and to the ground. "Dammit, not today," the young vampire mutters to himself, fighting to keep the sloshing liquid in his stomach. Tears sting his eyes as he swallows rapidly in an attempt to force the gagging to stop.

 _It's over, it's over, it's over_ , he chants as his body stills, but he drops the ground and presses his forehead into the snow, allowing the rush of the brook to drown out his thoughts and send the image of cool water streaming through his mind. It washes the blood away from his hands and restores his heartbeat. _It's okay, it's okay, it's okay._ Alfred's hands release his throat. _It's okay_ , he pleads again, then opens his eyes.

The doe meets his gaze. In her death, she still looks at him in innocent curiosity, with her tongue poking out of her mouth and her nostrils flaring slightly. For a moment, he imagines as if she is stretching her neck forward to lick his palm, so he reaches out a hand to feel the doe's wet nose.

With a sound like velcro separating underwater, her head detaches from the strings of flesh and lolls away from her body. Her tongue rests on a frozen patch of blood.

Alfred snatches back his hand and scrambles to his feet, nearly throwing himself across the clearing to get away from the body, away from the splintered bones, away from the gentle eyes. His chest heaves. Clutching his hand to his heart, he stares at the body of the doe and whispers, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." The doe has no answer; she only stares as ice begins to freeze over the soft flesh of her eyes.

 _Stupid. Every single time, stupid._ Alfred shakes his head. _It's a doe, just a doe. Nothing more._

"Nothing more," he says aloud, for good measure. He looks at the corpse again, then at the brook, then at the trees surrounding the clearing. "Stupid." He turns away from the scene and runs. _The snow will cover the body_.

And it does. Eventually.

* * *

 **…**

"… _Nothing else stirred, not a leaf,  
_ _not the air, but she startled and bolted  
_ _away from me into the crackling brush.  
_ _The part of my pain which sometimes  
_ _releases me from it fled with her, the rest,  
_ _in the rake of the late light, stayed."  
_ _ **-The Doe**_

* * *

 _ **AN**_ **: This is my contribution to the world of vampires. I wanted to make a parody of sorts to the usual vampire worlds, and this is what I have. Strap in for a melodramatic ride that might even get some plot. Cheers.**


	2. Act One, Scene Two

**Villadercendías, Province of Asturias, Spain**

Chk. Chk. Chk.

Rhythmic taps sound in rapid succession. The finger moves brusquely against trigger of the gun, itching to push back the metal piece and finish the job.

Chkchkchik.

 _Come on._ The hunter's acid eyes are narrowed as he glares down the barrel of his weapon, anchored firmly on his target. _Just a tad closer._

 _Chkchkch_ —

As if prompted by the thoughts of the hunter, the target shifts to the left, sending dark drops of crimson splattering to the snow. The crunch of shattering bones fills the air as the vampire bends lower over its prey to reassert its grip on her neck and replace the sound of bone with a dull, sluggish slurping.

 _There we are_. Arthur Kirkland's lips curve to form a smile as his finger tightens around the trigger. He squeezes it five times in rapid succession. Two in the chest, three between the eyes.

Only the chest shots land before a blood-curdling screech pierces the air. The vampire twists around, rage etched into its pallid features, its eyes wide as it frantically searches the forest for danger. Nothing would dare attack a vampire, except… there. Crouched in the brush, the smell of adrenaline and gunpowder. With a ferocious snarl, snow sprays into the air as the creature leaps, maw stretched open as it prepares to tear into the flesh of its attacker, only— the human isn't there. Claws and teeth pierce nothing but the powdery snow.

With another screech of disbelief, it cracks its head to the side. The vampire's mouth trembles as its tongue darts out to lick the bloody slobber dripping from its fangs; already its sense are dulled by the strange bullets. It turns around slowly and unclenches its claws, causing clumps of clotted blood to drop to the ground.

Now in the midst of the clearing is a short human with a weapon, a gun. A _human._ The vampire's muscles coil and release, but the human fires once more before stepping sharply to the side in order to avoid death. The momentum from the vampire's leap and the close-quarters shot sends the bullet straight through the vampire's head. With one final howl, the vampire collapses to the snow, its fangs barely centimeter away from Arthur's feet. Rotting blood powers from the holes in its head as it twitches once, then stills.

"Finally." Arthur glares at the corpse and steps away from the claws. He'd prefer that his shoes remain unblemished.

"Engage, microphone. Data log proceed. This is Agent Kirkland, repeat, Arthur Kirkland, calling in from Villadercendías," he says quietly, lightly circling the limp form of the creature. Arthur kicks the corpse, causing it to jolt and crash stiffly on to its back. "Everything went as planned. Target is affirmed: male vampire Antonio Fernández Carriedo, also known as the _Guaxa_. It is subdued for now. I will report back to HQ with the target once I have liquidated the victim."

The snow crunches beneath his feet as he strides over to the vampire's prey. The sight before him, although despicable, does not faze Arthur; it is nothing new, although he can't help with think _repulsive_ as he takes in her remains. The girl's body is mangled almost beyond recognition. The ground beneath her is stained black and scattered with scraps of flesh. Her neck is nothing more than sticky strings of dark flesh, and deep puncture wounds line her wrists and collarbones. Arthur sighs.

"The victim is dead," he states. "Precautionary measures will be taken, per usual. I will be testing von Bock's new tech to dispose of the victim. Commencing now. Disengage, microphone." He lets his hand drop from his ear to his shoulder, using the motion to pull out a small gun, a Glock.

Two shots ring into the frosty morning. Her body jerks to the side, and little red bleeds from her heart and head to the ground; her hunter has almost drained her dry.

 _Almost done,_ Arthur quips inwardly, striding from the woman's body to the vampire. He kneels next to it and pulls two sets of peculiar looking cuffs from his belt. Placing his knee squarely on the vampire's back, he restrains its wrists, then its ankles. He then stands to set his foot on the vampire's head and the muzzle of his gun to its temple. This time, the head shots hit their mark.

It only takes a few minutes for Arthur to dump his target into the back of the van, then trek back up the hill to the clearing to stand near the dead girl again. "Engage, microphone. Documenting features. Female, Spanish. Looks to be about 170 centimeters. Perhaps seventeen years of age. 53 kilograms. Bite marks on Location 1 and 3." He bends down, holding a small cylinder and a syringe. "Taking samples of her blood for testing back at HQ." He fills the syringe with black, sluggish blood, already congealed by venum. "Commencing disposal of the body."

Clearing his throat, a small device appears in Arthur's hands. It looks to the world a small, silver coin with a small indention on the underside curved like a crescent moon. Arthur presses his fingernail into the crevice. It beeps once and flashes twice with a red light. The metal piece is placed carefully under the dead woman's tongue.

Arthur then turns away and walks with measured steps down the hill. Behind him, hidden in the forest, Josephine Herradura disintegrates. There is no trace left in the snow.

"Mission completed. Disengage, microphone."

{-}

Twilight begins to creep over the horizon when the dark shapes of turrets and towering walls loom into sight. "Finally," Arthur mutters as he pulls the van to a stop inches away from a monsterous gate. It bars the continuation of the gravel road, which leads to a grand structure about two miles away. Arrow-headed spikes head the top of the gate, sending the twisted metal clawing into the sky. Each one is engraved with hundreds of tiny crosses. An oncoming storm rumbles in the distant clouds, sending winds whipping around the lowlands surrounding the castle.

"Arthur Kirkland," he speaks into the intercom, " _Spirits of the Dead_." At those words, the gates swing open. Once the van is safely inside the gates, they close with a resounding _clang_. Cloaked surveillance cameras follow the car's path up the road towards the castle and around the back towards a spacious stone bay. "Receiver to bay seven," Arthur enunciates. He exits the van and pulls the back doors open. The vampire doesn't stir as the fading echoes of sunlight hiss on its body, proving that the sedative still claims its conscious. Less than two minutes later, a figure swaggers towards the van.

"Artie, on time per usual, which means earlie. Wasn't t' solid for mah wee litt'l brother, am ah right?" The wind is knocked from Arthur's lungs as he receives a broad slap across his back from none other than Alistair Kirkland.

"Wasn't too difficult, no," Arthur wheezes, clutching the van doors for support. _Goddammit, Alistair._ "I, ah, appreciate your enthusiastic greeting."

"I know y' do," Alistair smirks. "Now where m' I supposed t' take this tosser?" He gestures to the vampire between them, now secured to a stretcher with thick, metal bands.

Arthur's nose wrinkles in disgust as he glances down at the vampire. "Since I must visit the armoury as soon as possible, it would be fantastic if you would situate it up in level three."

"A'right."

"And I shall be going back to the apartment. Don't expect to see me for at least a week," he informs Alistair as they wheel the vampire through the doors of the castle.

"Aye, aye, keepin' th' drill, but dinnae forgoat tae git mair food, a'right? Th' only thing w'aint out of is—"

"—Is alcohol, I know," Arthur grimaces. "Yes, I am aware. I shall stop by the store tomorrow— ah, _ow_." A high pitched keening assaults Arthur's hearing. "I must head to the armoury," he says quickly, then dashes away from Alistair and the vampire. The other agents give him a wide berth.

"Here," Arthur gasps, slightly out of breath as he enters the armoury. Immediately, the beeping ceases. He clears his throat and straightens. Now he can begin to stash his weapons. This is a required action for every single agent who returns from the field; no one carries guns for sedation inside the facility. Different weapons are needed in here. Weapons that will do a great deal more damage in case something escapes, and a pager is needed to remind every agent of that fact.

"Righty-o, a sun-slinger is what I need."

 _Sun-slinger._ Nickname for the most useful invention against vampires yet, bless Eduard von Bock. These weapons are far deadlier than your average gun; they shoot liquid sunlight, or, more accurately, an acid-like compound that burns the insides of a vampire like the sun does to its skin. The muzzle is wide and flat, about half the dimensions of an adult's palm, and the gun itself is a silver-white. The bullets the size of thumbnails and clear as glass with a sickly, amber liquid sloshing inside. With a satisfied smile, Arthur spins the weapon in his hand and stows it in his shoulder holster. Not only do they burn a vampire's skin and what's underneath, but they cause excruciating pain. They won't kill, no, the only thing that can kill a Fang is... well, they haven't exactly figured that out yet.

With a sharp _tch_ , Arthur spins on his heel to head to the upper cells. Although Alistair is almost as capable as Arthur himself, most of the people Arthur has met are utterly incapable of the slightest of tasks. People who are idiots around vampires don't stay idiots for long.

The Brit hums quietly to himself as he enters the elevator and presses the button to the third floor of the castle. Within seconds he arrives outside a pair of doors. In the same scarce amount of time, his card grants him access to the upper holding cells. He breathes deeply before he steps into the hallway.

The drop in temperature in the first thing Arthur notices. He shivers and rolls his shoulders once before firmly shutting the doors behind him. Magnetic locks sliding into place with small _chnks_ as he strides further away from the doors, the sound of his footsteps echoing around the hallway as he walks past door after door after door. Behind each one is a sleeping corpse. It matters not to Arthur; each is three feet thick and crafted from an alloy of rose-washed steel and silver. Impenetrable to a vampire.

"Here we are," Arthur comes to a stop outside one of the cells.

Although the vampire in the cell is Arthur's age, twenty-two, the Brit can only look down at it with hatred. Antonio Fernández Carriedo is perfectly still, with one hand brushing the concrete floor while the other is folded across its chest. Its face is smooth and relaxed, mouth half-open and head tilted slightly to the side. The picture of handsome innocence.

Arthur knows better.

These creatures are abhorrent, beastly things. They used to be human, true, but that means nothing; it means nothing to Arthur, and apparently nothing to the vampires themselves, for they have but one goal: to kill and feed. They are creatures that have lost their minds from thirst. No sane creature of any merit would kill their own kind so often and ruthlessly with no regard for life.

It was a vampire that killed his younger brother, Peter. _An animal attack._ That's what the adults had said. Arthur knew better. It was a vampire that maimed his younger brother, and he had sworn to find a way to hunt them down, all of them, and take some form of revenge.

As an eleven year old with limited resources, Arthur managed nothing. It would not be until nine years later that his dream would come true. It was after his graduation from university that P.O.E. approached. The organization had been watching, waiting, for the Brit to graduate. They take only the best and the brightest, another thing Arthur found out after he had accepted; his eldest brother, Alistair, had joined P.O.E. as well. It took only six months for Arthur to rise through the ranks and work alongside his brother.

 _The Kirkland brothers: a vampire's worst nightmare._ Arthur smiles wryly. _Especially to vampires likes this._ Arthur's mind flashes to the body of the Spanish female. She was an innocent, most likely charmed by Carriedo's looks and charismatic demeanor. Arthur clenches his fists. He must prevent more Peters and Josaphines from happening.

 _I will eradicate the whole vampire species if it is the last thing I do_ , he vows, turning away from the cell. _Now_. Time for home and a nice, hot, long bath. That's one of the advantages of working in the field; there is a good gap of time in between missions. _Maybe a cup of that matcha I have been meaning to try, or perhaps some herbal_ —

"Kirkl'nd."

A solemn voice pulls Arthur from his thoughts of tea. He immediately recognizes the voice and matches it to the stern face of Agent Berwald Oxenstierna. Now that's a man he connects with. Though perhaps a bit intimidating, the Swede knows how to follow orders and can man a gun quite expertly.

Arthur turns around and nods politely. "Yes?"

"Beilschmidt wants t' see y' 'n his office."

Except for the way he cuts of his vowels. It's a bit obnoxious, honestly, but Arthur knows that it's because English is Berwald's third language, Swedish being his first and German his second.

"Any reason as to why?" Arthur replies, words clipped. "I was just on my way home after an upper level mission. Surely he knows that the details of the mission have already been recorded and a verbal report is not required?"

Berwald blinks slowly, unfazed by Arthur's biting tone. The Brit has been known to shoot the messenger, or shoot anyone, for the record. "'M sure he does, but th's his orders. You should go see wh' he wants."

"Alright then, I guess I have to." Arthur frowns. "Hmm. Well, you are off to Poland with Vargas correct?"

"Head'n out tomorrow. Wish m' luck."

Arthur makes an acceptable sound of sympathy. "Good luck, Oxenstierna. I shall see you and Vargas in a few weeks if all goes well. I will see to the Commander now." With one last brisk nod to Berwald, Arthur strides past the man in the direction of the head offices.

Ah, the Commander of P.O.E. A boorish, albino young man who looks as if he could be a vampire himself, his most notable feature being his crimson eyes. Obnoxious, arrogant, and loud-mouthed, Gilbert Beilschmidt is… an acceptable superior, Arthur has to admit. He and his brother, Ludwig, keep command of the facility with iron fists. Nothing is out of place. In any other situation, Arthur would despise being forced to report to anyone else, but it doesn't bother him. He will be sitting in the Commander's chair soon enough, and then he will be in charge of the campaign against vampires.

 _I wonder if I will get details for my next mission_ , he wonders as he exits the elevator. There hasn't been any sort of a real threat in Europe— except France and Poland— for a while. The vampires are too focused on finding their next meal and staying hidden to organize themselves. He grimaces. _I hope I don't have to go to France. The only thing that is worse than a vampire is a French vampire._

He reaches the Commander's door and raises a hand to knock… then decides against it. " _Yes_?" Arthur barges into the office, mustering as all the contempt he can manage into the word. "Sir," he adds quickly.

" _Gott_ , Kirkland!" A large mound of papers flutters to the floor. The Commander stares at them with wide eyes before glaring at Arthur. "You need to work on your people skills, you know zat, right?" Gilbert stoops low and gathers the papers, taking great care to re-organize them exactly as they had been.

Arthur rolls his eyes and leans against the doorway. "With all due respect, Commander, cut the poppycock. I assume this isn't just a regular report? You should know that I've taken care of Carriedo; he's in custody and settled into level three."

"I know, but zis is not about zat." Gilbert snickers briefly at the bewildered expression that appears on Arthur's face. Honestly, the slightest change in Arthur's schedule occurs and one would think the world was ending judging from the Brit's reaction. "You've got another task, set in—"

"What."

 _I swear his eyebrows grow bigger the angrier he gets._ Gilbert smirks and leans back in his chair, propping up his feet on to his desk. " _Ja_. You've got another mission."

"Bollocks!" Arthur slams his hands on Gilbert's desk. The albino cocks an eyebrow, but Arthur continues, raging: "I just came back from a case— and you're sending me out again?! You know how it bloody well works-"

"—May I remind you, Kirkland, zat you are _not_ Commander of P.O.E." Gilbert's gaze hardens. ""Understand?"

Arthur nods mutely.

"You know zat we are understaffed. You know zat the Fangs need containing more zan ever. This organization is fighting to save people. Is the end of the world to run a couple missions back to back? You're von of ze best ve have, besides ze awesome me, of course." He offers Arthur a grin.

"That is true."

"One of the _best_."

"Very good, sir."

"I mean, you finished two days earlier zan expected on ze last case. You have skill, Arthur, which is why P.O.E. needs you. We need someone who can get in fast and get out even faster with ze objective completed. Zat's you, Arthur. P.O.E. needs you."

If Arthur had feathers, he would rival those a peacock. "Yes, thank you. I can see your point."

"Glad you understand," Gilbert grins, then steeples his fingers and leans across his desk. "Your next task is in England, so you won't have to travel out of the country. You like to read, _ja_? This town is ze birthplace of Shakespeare: Stratford upon Avon. Thought you might like zat." Gilbert pauses for a response, but Arthur says nothing. "We've got almost next to nothing on ze target. Ze evidence we have at ze moment is a drained carcass of a doe and a few footprints. Ze surrounding area also shows signs of a hunt, and thanks to ze winter, we also found traces of other drained animals. All taken down by a vampire. Ze same one. It's not much to go off of, but there is something in zat town."

Yes," Arthur tsks impatiently, slightly disappointed. "But why do you need me? This doesn't sound like a high-level case at all."

"Well, for one, we do not know what type it could be. It could be high-level after all, especially with ze type of town it is in. It could be picking off foreigners as we speak. Since you are one of our youngest and most skilled agents, you have been chosen for a reason. By me."

This time, a scowl cannot be kept at bay, though is dulled by the thought of a special mission; _chosen for it because I'm the best_. "And as who would I be traveling to Stratford upon Avon as?" Arthur asks tentatively. _Please don't be_ -

"Arthur Kirkland, an ordinary high school guy," Gilbert grins and leans back, hands clasped behind his head. Here comes the best facial expressions of frustration Gilbert's ever seen on a man.

"A secondary school student?" _Bastard! He looks so damn proud of himself._ Arthur can only repeat the words in disbelief. "I'm twenty-two years old! Twenty-two, Commander! There is no way I can go back to secondary school. Not that I wouldn't be capable of it, but surely you see my point!"

"You can, and you will," Gilbert orders. "You look young enough, and you're definitely short enough—"

"Excuse me—"

"—and I have full confidence zat you can blend in," Gilbert finishes, ignoring the interruption. "I know you just got back from a pickup, but zis has to be taken care of quickly. Who knows what could be lurking in zat town? It's because of the lack of evidence zat we need you." He pauses, then speaks again. His voice is low, each word chosen with caution. "Arthur, look at the facts. England needs someone like _you_ to help with the threat of the Fangs."

Arthur's eyebrows are so low on his face, they seem to swallow his eyes. Eventually, however, they lift with a resigned sigh. He really does have no choice, and, well, it's a great feeling to be needed. "When do I leave?"

A wide grin spills across the albino's face. Arthur is too easy sometimes. "Tomorrow! And don't worry— your cover and place have already been taken care of!"

"Tomorrow?"

" _Ja_."

"...Right then. I'll be going home now, sir. What time do I leave tomorrow?"

"06:00. Arrive early for more briefing. You'll drive from here to Stratford upon Avon, only a few hours, I believe. Dismissed."

Arthur nods, then slips out the door without another word. If it weren't for his family name, he'd be sitting where Gilbert is already, and not on his way to some town in England, where he will have to stay for God knows how long, and—

 _Tomorrow? I can not believe this._ Arthur glowers as he stomps towards the elevators. The other agents give him a wide berth, a wise move judging from how low his eyebrows have dropped over his eyes. _It's been years since I was in secondary school. Years! The one thing I remember about school is that it was horrid. And the evidence! It hardly can be called evidence at all. It's_ — The thought gives Arthur a pause. _The evidence… That's why Beilschmidt chose me!_ He straightens. _Everyone else is inferior and incapable of completing this mission as a result of the scarce evidence. Everyone except for myself._ He smirks. _I truly am the best…_

And it goes without saying that Arthur Kirkland can handle something as elementary as school.

* * *

 _ **A/N**_ **: Hah puns.**


	3. Act One, Scene Three

**Act One, Scene Three:** _ **Innocuous**_

* * *

 **...**

" _One ought to be afraid of nothing other than things possessed of power  
_ _to do us harm, but things innocuous need not be feared_."  
 ** _\- The Divine Comedy_**

 **...**

* * *

 **Stratford upon Avon Secondary School, England**

 _So, New Year's resolution. That would be a failure_. _Faaantastic_. Alfred clasps his hands together in mock wonder. _I'm just full of surprises._ He shakes his head and adjusts his backpack over his shoulder. _At least the snow looks nice today._ Even despite his sour mood, he can't help but admit how beautiful Stratford upon Avon is after last night's snowfall. _It's a pleasant change in scenery,_ the vampire decides; he's elected to take this route today only because he figures no one would walk to school in such temperatures. Even he can tell the air is cold; it smells bitter and feels empty as it whistles around inside his chest.

 _So I'm safe._ Heaps of snow line the walkways, awaiting their fate as Alfred walks; each pile receives a sound kick, spraying the snow into the street.

 _Being a vampire does have its perks,_ Alfred decides, flexing his gloveless hands, _the dead are always cold._ Another mound of snow falls victim to Alfred's foot. He watches globules of ice skid across the sidewalk, splattering the concrete and a pair of expensive-looking black boots with— _Wait_.

Boots? Black ones? Expensive?

 _Oh no. Oh no, oh, please no._ Alfred prays, begs, that those boots don't belong to her. Anyone but _her_ , please, not Li—

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my favorite, full-figured friend. Fat-ass Jones." Indeed, those rather expensive-looking black boots do, in fact, belong to _her_. Liên Kim Nguyễn.

"Did you not hear me, Alfred?" the girl asks, sticking out her lower lip in a mock pout. "I said hello. Where are your manners? Hiding under that layer of fat?" She laughs lightly and sashays closer, crossing her arms across the waist of her tan, knee-length coat. It, too, looks expensive.

"Morning, Liên," Alfred mutters quietly, eyes still fixed on the ground. _Kill me._

"That's better." She pauses for a moment to observe her nails, then looks up. Her brow crinkles. "Aw, Alfie. Is the ground more interesting than I am? We both know that's not true. Why don't you look at me?" Liên asks innocently, circling the vampire. "Your eyes are your nicest feature. Your only nice feature, I mean. They actually don't make me want to puke!" She makes a retching sound, pretending to stick two fingers down her throat. The two figures behind Liên snicker and step out to flank her. "Alfie, Alfie, as a good person, I simply cannot ignore this any longer. It is my duty to tell you this: you seem to have something on your chin. No... the third one down. Looks like you traded your neck for an extra chin." The ebony-haired girl throws her head back and screeches with laughter.

Alfred winces, then immediately regrets it. How stupid. He lets these barbed words pierce his skin. He knows he's a good fifty pounds overweight— he _knows_ it, but apparently it's direly important to remind him of this as often as possible and in the most scathing ways possible. _You remind me of a goose_ , he thinks sourly.

"Wait, wait, wait. Guys. Stop insulting him." Carlos Machado speaks up, slinging an arm around Alfred's shoulders. He smiles, white teeth flashing against his dark skin. "He's got enough on his plate already!" He pokes the vampire in the stomach.

Alfred curls in on himself as the smell of human blood assaults his senses. _Get it together, it doesn't bother you, it doesn't bother you._ He glares at the ground as if to melt the snow, hardly daring to glance up for fear the others may notice his darkened eyes.

"But hey, don't worry! I have a solution." Liên smirks, eyes glittering with ill-gotten pleasure. "Want to lose ten pounds of repulsive fat? Just cut off your head.~"

The posse is now walking backwards in front of Alfred, preventing him from speeding up, backing up, or turning to either side. "I mean, you could totally be the before picture. I'll call it the Liên Diet! So go ahead and do it, fat-ass; it's not as if anyone's going to miss you." She leans close and grips Alfred's cheeks, forcing his head up to meet her gaze. Voice saturated with venom, she spits out her last sentence: "Your New Year's Resolution should be to _die_." With that, she spins on her heel and strides away.

Alfred drops his head back to his chest and watches her go. "It was…"

 _ **{-}**_

It's on days like these that Alfred misses food.

Fifty years, that's how long it's been since the vampire's eaten. Human food, that is. Has he attempted to consume something other than blood? Most certainly, and the results were disastrous: (It was extraordinarily traumatizing to find out that on top of feeling lowkey murderous desires towards every human that crossed his path and being stuck mid-puberty forever, that Big Macs have no taste anymore.)

Never again will Alfred taste the tantalizing sweetness of a moist, chocolate cake or the strong, commanding flavor of an earthy coffee. He cannot savor the saltiness of fries or the tangy, spiced flava of pizza sauce. A well-done, plump burger? Only in his dreams.

This is what Alfred hates most about his existence as a vampire. As a human, Alfred had always been able to turn to food for comfort. But now? Blood is all that food was for Alfred; it has become the sweet, the sour, the salty, and the savory. The liquid Alfred so despised has transformed into his lifeline. Blood is everything at once; texture, scent, _taste_. It is grilled cheese and tomato soup on a cool autumn day. It is pasta salad on a warm spring night. It is everything, but not quite. Perhaps for other vampires, blood is sufficient, but not for Alfred; animals aren't met to be a vampire's prey. His fangs and throat long for more. They ache with a dry desire that dilutes his mind and sharpens his venom-induced instincts.

Blood may be a form of bliss, but it is an adulterated bliss that will never satisfy.

Especially now, the food-provided haven is what Alfred longs for. Fifty years suspended in a mid-puberty limbo of existence has taught Alfred that no matter the nation, no matter the time, people are cruel. That's just the way it is. It matters not how much technology is available, how much the Earth has warmed up, or how close several species are to extinction. After the same jeers, the sneers, the sideways glances for nearly five decades, it's all the same.

 _Honestly, I would just really like a Big Mac today,_ Alfred thinks. He slumps over his desk and attempts to focus on whatever the teacher is saying. It might be important. _Hah._

"We have a new student joining us today." The Calculus teacher stands at the front of the classroom, the "new student" beside her. Whispers begin to flurry around the room— " _A new student, so late in the year? Doesn't he look older to you? He's kinda cute, yeah? His eyebrows are fucking massive. D'you think he_ —"

" _Eyes_ up here, please and thank you," the teacher says, raising her voice. She claps twice for attention. The whispers lower in volume. "As I was saying. His name is Arthur Kirkland, and I expect you to treat him with the same respect you do to all your other classmates. I know you'll all give him a warm welcome, and if he has any questions, I and anyone else here will be happy to answer them…"

Just like most of the other students at this point, the young vampire that sits three rows in the back, two from the aisle, is not listening to the introduction of Arthur Kirkland. Alfred is dead to the world. Literally. _I think my puns have reached a point where_ —

He cuts himself as a low snarl ripples in the back of his throat. Alfred sits up straight. A new scent is present the classroom. Assertive. Dangerous. _Another hunter is here. I can smell it_. There, at the front of the classroom. The vampire's pupils contract and widen. A new student, still with the teacher. She is still talking, but the teen doesn't seem to be listening. He's looking, no, scanning the classroom and its occupants.

Alfred fights to keep his lips from pulling back to expose his teeth. Creaks of stress groan from the desk as he grips the wood, every atom in his body coiled with tension. _Something's not right here._

The other teen appears innocuous enough. He's dressed in the standard Stratford upon Avon Secondary school uniform, a messenger bag slung across his chest. But his thin frame appears coiled, tense, ready to pounce. No one seems to notice Arthur's insistent gaze as it dresses down and dissects everyone in the room.

Alfred bristles in his seat. His nostrils flare as his instincts tell him to run, but— _He's human. Have I gone crazy? I can hear his heartbeat and smell his blood. This is just a human, nothing more. I don't understand. What's wrong with me?_

"—F. Jones."

The edge of the desk splinters as Alfred starts, pulled out of his thoughts by the mention of his name. Confusion crinkling his brow, he looks at the teacher. The teacher is pointing towards an empty chair, which is coincidentally right next to the vampire. The new student is to sit by him?

Alfred steals another glance at the new student, but this time, Arthur is there to meet his gaze.

When you have lived for fifty years, the world's horrors don't seem to affect you as much. Next to nothing can hurt you. Nothing seems dangerous. The people around you become young and insignificant. Today, however, is different. For it is today that Alfred feels something he hasn't felt in a long time: _fear_.

The new student apparently decides that Alfred is nothing important, for he breaks the eye contact and sits down. Following the action, he takes out a small notebook and begins to write. In short, Arthur is the very definition of anti-climatic.

The class progresses, but Alfred cannot focus. The hair on the nape of his neck bristles. Every sense is hyper-aware, focused on the teen next to him; the teacher and other students become nothing but white noise. _What is wrong with me?_ he thinks desperately. _Why am I so afraid_? He clenches his fists in a vain attempt to stop his body from shaking. The piece of desk in his hand crumbles to sawdust. Every two minutes warrants a sideways glance at Arthur. And with every look, Alfred's anxiety grows exponentially. Messy blond hair, green eyes, thick eyebrows, a thin frame. All painstakingly normal… but not.

The Brit scribbles continuously in the notebook. It looks as if he is taking diligent notes, but something tells Alfred that those notes are not on Calculus. Despite common sense telling him to leave it alone, Alfred grows curious.

 _Just one look_ , Alfred tells himself. _Just one look, then I'll stop. Only one. I'll just… satisfy my curiosity, yeah. That's all I'm doing. Then I'll stop._

He shifts sideways and tilts his head back, raising his chin to peer over Arthur's shoulder. _Yes, yes, move your hand. A little to the left, just a bit, there we go. Just gotta look up a bit more_ —

Alfred freezes. His curiosity has been most definitely quenched, even though he'd only been able to catch one word. Just one.

 _Vampire_.

 _ **{-}**_

 _None of the females. This goes without saying, courtesy of the briefing this morning. The fang marks, although shallow, were not small enough to be female. My catch is young, male, and inexperienced. Not to mention the size, width, and length of the footprint. There is no way the vampire is female or over five foot six. None of the females. This goes without…_

The information loops around in Arthur's head, as if by analyzing it over and over again, a new clue will appear. He's been on a mission like this once before. It was for his final initiation into P.O.E. He'd aced it, and in record time too. It was simple. Identify the vampire, gather more information, then engage and capture the target. Of course, he'd had much more to work with back then; preference of blood, age, details like that. All Arthur has now is male, young, approximate height, and his own experience. But the last in itself is something far more valuable than most pieces of information. Some agents can barely distinguish human from vampire as it is, but Arthur? Arthur can tell at first glance, a fine mix of intuition and observance. Arthur was made for reconnaissance.

 _I will start with everyone in my classes. Take it one at a time. Go off of first glance, and if anyone warrants a second one, they become a suspect. If someone is a suspect, I will engage. The shortest amount of time it will take me to search the whole of the school is five weeks, provided I am consistent. At least I have a contact here. Ludwig Beilschmidt. I am elated to have the privilege to work with him._

Thankfully, Gilbert had realized that searching an entire school for a single vampire is nearly impossible to do alone and had sent someone ahead of Arthur. _Ludwig is posing as a teacher. The authority may be useful._

Arthur frowns thoughtfully to himself, tapping his pen on the desk. Ludwig can easily adjust class activities to include things that vampires shy away from, especially since the German is posing as a Home Economics teacher. The class possesses a wider scope of activities compared to other classes. _Cooking with garlic, of course._ He taps his pencil faster.

He's almost halfway through the day, and already a headache pulses painfully in his skull. Arthur sighs. There's a reason for this and a rather stupid reason at that. He's an _adult_. There's no reason he should feel this way, but already a feeling of unease has settled itself in Arthur's mind. _This is so trivial,_ his logic says fiercely, but it's a simple fact: Arthur's never felt more out of place.

 _It hasn't been that long since I've been to secondary school,_ the Brit tells himself. However, the tension does not leave his body; he's wound up tight like a spring. He's twenty-two. Everyone around him is at least five years his junior. _Come off it!_ he snaps inwardly. _I need to focus. I am going to be here a while. I cannot let these silly feelings get in my way._

A long, piercing ring sounds, signaling the start of the lunch period. The classroom erupts in a blizzard of voices and movement, drowning out the teacher's voice. "The bell doesn't dismiss you, I do," the teacher says, but his words are lost.

 _Some things haven't changed._ Arthur stands calmly, straightening his tie. Now. Time to explore some of the school and its students.

Outside the classroom, the hallways are congested with bodies, all moving at a snail's pace to the lunch hall. Arthur looks at the crowd with disdain. Teenagers, how dreadful. They remind him of his younger years. He shivers. He does not need to be reminded of his middle school punk phase. The healing holes in his eyebrow, ears, and lips already do that daily. _The things I would do for five quid…_ The Brit shakes his head. _Never mind that. Focus._

As planned, Arthur doesn't head to the cafeteria. Instead, he heads to the library. _Let's see if there's anyone who goes to the library because they don't eat. Or, even better, vampires who go to the library because they can't eat._

Past classrooms, staircases, and a multitude of lockers Arthur travels. He manages to catch a glimpse outside one of the school's many windows. A large stretch of forest surrounds the school, mostly ashes, birches, and spruces. _The body was found within that forest,_ Arthur thinks absentmindedly, _and_ _the vampire will most be caught there if I stay for more than a week._

The Brit reaches the library minutes later. He pushes open the wooden doors, then pauses in the frame to observe his surroundings. It is a standard secondary school library: homely, full of books, and bustling with teenagers. _It's so… full._ Arthur blinks. _Well, I suppose I will have to_ —

"Move it!"

A pair of hands shove Arthur in the back, and it's thanks to his quick reflexes that he doesn't topple over to the carpeted floor. Obscenities on his lips, Arthur whirls around to spot a defiant-looking female. "Excuse me?" he asks politely, his voice laced with acid.

The girl blinks at Arthur's tone. She looks up at the Brit and frowns. "Don't block the way," she snarls finally, then, with a flip of her hair, she brushes past Arthur and strides into the library.

 _Why! I have never seen such_ — _No, no, concentrate._ The Brit straightens his tie. _Concentrate. Such simple-mindedness has no place in distracting me from my job._ He goes back to surveying the library for a place to sit. The most strategic location would be in the middle, near the clusters of computers, but someone else is sitting at the table. Yes, it's an entire table, but Arthur does not fancy voluntarily sitting next to any member of the student body. _What part of this mission is voluntary?_ Arthur smirks. He heads across the library.

As he gets closer, he recognizes the form at the table, the bloke from Calculus. Arthur quickly scans the teen's form once again and rules him off again even quicker. Though his skin is pale enough, his hair lustrous enough, and his teeth white enough, vampires simply do not have acne and aren't overweight. Condoning popular belief, vampires are good-looking.

"May I sit here?"

The teen jolts, eye wide as his head snaps up from his book at the sound of the accented voice. "Um... Sure."

Arthur raises an eyebrow and slides in the seat next to the boy, careful to put a great deal of distance between him and Alfred. _I want to associate with as little people as possible while I am here,_ he quips inwardly as he takes out his notebook for more observations. He doesn't notice Alfred's frequent looks his way.

That's when _he_ walks into the library. Arthur can feel the presence of something different almost immediately, a sixth sense of his. He narrows his eyes and peers across the library where through the doors a teen as entered, but not just any teen, no. _A suspect._ The target across appears to be Japanese with a slim build and expressionless brown eyes. His skin is unblemished and milky, providing an enchanting juxtaposition with hair so black it seems to reject the light.

 _He fits the vampiric mold._

The Brit suspicions are only confirmed further as his target begins to walk further into the library, although walk is not the world Arthur would choose. The teen seems to glide with a quiet grace in an almost regal fashion. Arthur drops his gaze to his notebook as it becomes apparent that the Asian is heading to Arthur's table. _Dear god…_ But it is the teen next to him that the possible-vampire seeks, not Arthur. _Hm. Time to eavesdrop, I suppose._

" _Domo_ , Alfred."

" _Konnichi wa_ , Kiku," the teen, now dubbed Alfred, responds. " _Genki desu ka?_ "

 _Of course. Speaking in Japanese. Because that is completely predictable and plausible._ Arthur inwardly curses as the two begin to converse. He can gather next to no information now, only steal looks at the teens next to him. It's a real possibility that this Kiku could be what Arthur is looking for. He needs a way to get closer to the Japanese teen without actually coming into contact; doing so would be dangerous until it's actually time make a move.

It only takes a few seconds to come up with a plan. Is it the best one? No, but it will serve its purpose.

Arthur bides his time until the bell rings, sending Kiku hurrying off to class with a polite " _ja mata"_ serving as a goodbye to Alfred, who takes his time packing up. _Excellent,_ Arthur thinks, then stands and taps Alfred on the shoulder. He smiles pleasantly, or what he hopes is a pleasant smile.

Arthur briefly recalls Gilbert's last words to him that morning during the briefing. _You need to act like a normal person,_ the Prussian had told him. _You're undercover. That means don't act like you, Arthur. Don't be so…_ Gilbert had waved his hands in the general direction of Arthur in a vain attempt to explain his words.

 _But your gesturing all of me,_ Arthur had protested.

 _Exactly_ , nodded Gilbert. _Don't be so you. Be friendly._ _Act like you're not an undercover adult looking for an immortal creature among children…_

 _Here it goes, then._ "Hello," Arthur greets brightly, as the other teen spins around, eyes widening to almost a comical size when they rest on Arthur.

"Er, hi..." Alfred replies.

"I couldn't help but notice the language you and that other boy were speaking just a few minutes ago. Japanese, was it not?"

Alfred nods slowly.

"I've always had an interest in Japanese," Arthur lies. "Do you think you could introduce me to him, and perhaps the two of you could teach me a thing or two?" Now for a hopeful expression: eyes wide, head tilted slightly.

"I... I guess," Alfred mutters.

Arthur beams happily and clasps his hands once together. "Fantastic. Should I get your number for contact, or do you think the two of you could meet here for lunch tomorrow?"

"Um... I guess we could be in the library tomorrow," Alfred murmurs as he backs away. "See you then, I guess." With that, he turns and walks quickly away, his arms crossed his arms tightly against his chest.

The Brit watches the vampire go, waving cheerily at the teen's back. As soon as Alfred is out of sight, the innocuous smile falls from Arthur's face. In its place is a disdainful frown. "This might just be easier than I thought," he muses, toying with the silver chain that falls around his throat. At the end dangles a sable crucifix. "And Gilbert says I can't act." He tucks the necklace under his shirt. " _Sayonara, kyuuketsuki_."

* * *

 **A/N: Liên Kim Nguyễn is Vietnam, and Carlos Machado is Cuba.** _ **Kyuuketsuki**_ **means vampire in Japanese. Please review.**


	4. Act Two, Scene One

**Act Two, Scene One:** _ **Engage**_

 **Story thus far** **: Alfred. F. Jones is an unusual vampire; he hasn't the looks nor skills of our stereotypical creatures of the night. Arthur Kirkland is a deadly agent of P.O.E. with a vendetta against vampires, sent to Alfred's school in Stratford upon Avon to search for a mystery vampire. He believes Kiku Honda, Alfred's friend, to be what he is looking for. When the story left off, Arthur pretends to be interested in Japanese in order to investigate Kiku…**

 **IMPORTANT: I rewrote and updated the last three chapters. No big changes, just small ones that erase plot holes, add some foreshadowed future events, better define characters, and make the writing, y'know, not shitty. Also vampyre is vampire now bc apparently vampire is something different. I do apologize for the inconveniences.**

* * *

"' _Come,' said the spider to the boy. 'Look how the sun turns dew to diamond on my web.'  
_ _And the boy crept closer still, enchanted by the beauty,  
_ _which so distracted from the spider's fangs._ "

 _ **-Unknown**_

* * *

 **Stratford-upon-Avon Secondary School, England**

Kiku Honda is miffed.

Irritated, inconvenienced, irked— annoyed, if you will. Kiku is all of that and a bag of chips, and he detests it even more so now, for another idiom pops into his head: everything but the kitchen sink. _Annoyance levels rising._

 _I will never understand English idioms_ , he decides, taking yet another silent vow against the English language. For a moment, his frustration has an outlet, and the headache pulsing beneath his forehead eases. However, the myriad of strange sayings in the English language is not the cause of his annoyance today, no, the cause of his annoyance is a certain pale, timid individual named _Alfred_. Kiku Honda is miffed because Alfred refuses to tell him something, and he is desperate to know what it is.

 _Am I entitled to every whim that comes into his mind_? Kiku pauses for a second, then he dismisses the thought. _Yes. Especially when it concerns lunch. Speaking of which—_ The train of thought ends as Kiku arrives outside the library. His annoyance returns tenfold. This is where he is supposed to meet Alfred and his "acquaintance."

When Alfred had first mentioned the stranger, it had all seemed insignificant. The text conversation had been nothing more than:

' _Oh, yeah, there's a dude that's interested in Japanese, told him we're gonna meet him for lunch tomorrow. Cool?_ '

And Kiku had responded, ' _cool'_ with an emoji or two, and that was the end of the conversation, but it was not ' _cool_.' Not at all. At two in the morning, however, Kiku had been unable to summon anything more than an unpleasant feeling and decided that it would be best to deal with it all tomorrow.

Putting it off until tomorrow had not changed a thing, and Kiku begins to wonder if that had been a mistake, given that the bags under his eyes are big enough to hold groceries. _There_ _is no use in thinking about it now._ He's been hesitating at the library doors for far longer than is socially acceptable, so he pulls them open, walks inside, and… nothing monumental happens. _Shocking_.

 _Even so, Alfred-san seemed reluctant to tell me about 'Arthur,'_ Kiku continues to ponder the matter as he makes his way through bookshelves, jumbled groups of tables, and the student population that he has dubbed long ago as 'general incompetence.' _He seemed anxious; I wonder why. He must know that I can not guess at these things. Odd_ , Kiku concludes, gaze trained on the carpeted floor; initiating eye contact with a random stranger would be horribly unpleasant, and it is something that the Japanese teen does not wish to deal with even for a mere second. Afterall, Kiku Honda lives religiously by a basic rule: limited social contact means limited crippling awkwardness and even fewer social mishaps. Simple, easy, and it works.

Finally, he reaches a table in the very back of the library. The spot is nestled within a small alcove beneath a set of stairs and shrouded from the general public by bookshelves. Alfred and Kiku had found it halfway through their first year of secondary school, and so long as they were quiet and weren't too obvious about eating in the library, they had claimed the spot for lunch period. It is theirs, and no one else's, _and now Alfred has brought some rand_ —

"Heya, Kiku!" And here is Alfred himself, grinning widely and in some sort of mood that Kiku immediately identifies as far too boisterous for school hours. Behind him is their regular table at which someone is standing up from, but Kiku pays him no mind and chooses to focus on Alfred instead.

 _He is hyper and uppity. What is going on._ Kiku frowns in lieu of a greeting, managing to convey his distaste at Alfred's over-enthusiastic hello without uttering a word.

"Glad you finally made it," Alfred continues, seemingly oblivious to notice Kiku's subtle discomfort. He runs a hand through his hair and tugs at the strands before dropping his arm back to his side and nodding again to Kiku. Then Alfred repeats the motion, seemingly incapable of staying still for even a second.

 _So he is like this today_. Kiku shoots Alfred a loaded look and walks primly past him to take a seat. "My last class is on the other side of the school, Alfred-san. You know that."

"Haha, yeah, cool, me too." Alfred waves a hand. "Right, so, this is Arthur, the guy from yesterday that I was tellin' you about." He gestures to the person standing next to him, who dips his head in a polite nod.

"Hello, Kiku. My name is Arthur Kirkland."

"It is nice to meet... you..." Kiku raises his eyes to meet Arthur's gaze—

— _and finds himself staring into the most alluring jade eyes he's ever seen in his life._

…

 _Koi no yokan_.

An untranslatable Japanese phrase, for the meaning is one so beautiful and precise that no other language possesses the words to match.

 _Koi no yokan_ : upon first meeting someone, the feeling that you will inevitably fall in love. Kiku has seen the phrase tossed around in various shoujo manga, but he is most certainly not in a manga. _And yet... Perhaps I_ am _in a manga_ , Kiku thinks vaguely, for no other coherent thought seems to want to form.

He is sure that Arthur is saying something, and perhaps Alfred is too, but words have suddenly lost their value. Kiku is suddenly intimately aware of his heart, which thunders painfully in his chest, momentarily stealing away his breath. Time probably stops, or it must, because Kiku takes several seconds to drink in the sight of Arthur. _Arthur Kirkland… Arthur Kirkland. Arthur._ The name circling in Kiku's head sounds tantalizing, a name that matches with eyes that warn: _I am not one to be messed with_ , yet beckon Kiku closer all the same. He now understands the phrase "flirting with death," and that alone terrifies him yet transfixes him all the same.

Time, unfortunately, goes back to normal far too soon; suddenly the three are seated at the table, and he finds himself back in reality. Kiku blinks. Arthur is looking expectantly at him, and Alfred is staring at Kiku with an expression halfway between shock and disapproval.

 _Oh, please no_ , Alfred groans inwardly as he takes in Kiku's elevated breathing, irregular pulse, and stupefied expression. It is an expression he's only seen a couple of times, for it usually appears at three in the morning when the shows Kiku wanted to watch began to itch suspiciously close to hentai. (For all his stiff mannerisms and detached way of emoting, Alfred has seen some of Kiku's woodcuts. They are anything but expressionless.) For all of that, however, it seems that in the two minutes that Kiku has known Arthur, he has become absolutely infatuated with him, and now, upon observing Kiku again, seems as if he is about to spontaneously combust.

" _Sumimasen_!"

Alfred starts as Kiku throws himself up from the table and bows. "I must use the restroom," he explains fiercely, and, after another quick bow, dashes away from the table and through the bookshelves.

 _What the fuck._ Alfred stares at where Kiku had been seconds ago. Beside him, Arthur does the same, thoroughly confused. "He'll be back, probably," Alfred says aloud, more to himself, but Arthur nods anyway.

Minutes pass, and Kiku does not return. Bored, Alfred sits back and toys with a lone pen on the table. He presses the top several times in rapid succession, filling the silence with a series of small, insistent clicks.

 _Clck. Clck. Clck._

 _I cannot stand this silence._ "Why did you, Alfred, decide to learn Japanese?" Arthur asks conversationally. He attempts to sound jovial, engaged; perhaps he can glean some information from Alfred, even though the teen in front of him looks anything but friendly. _It seems as if he wants to be anywhere but here. I wonder why._

"Anime." _Clck_.

"Ah, I see." Arthur pauses, waiting for Alfred to elaborate further, but the teen says nothing. He clears his throat lightly before continuing: "How do you know Kiku? He speaks English well."

"Met him a couple years ago, and, yeah, his English is pretty good." Coming from Alfred, the statement sounds defiant, almost truculent. "He speaks it better than I do, and I've been speaking it for like fift—fifteen, fifteen of the years, yes, I've speaken— spoken— English for exactly that time, yes."

 _Clck. Clck._

"Ah." Arthur nods sagely. _Must be nervous about something, then. I wonder if he, too, notices that something is off with his friend and is unsettled. He is a human teenager, after all, and must have no idea what is going on. Unwillingly preyed upon by one of_ those _behemoths. Despicable_. He attempts to ask another question. "So how did you and Kiku meet?"

"In a bookstore." _Clck. Clck._

 _Anxious or not, he is rather impolite. If he knew who I was and what I am doing_ , _respect would surely follow. I am beginning to think that he doesn't like me… which does not matter, not in the slightest. I am an adult. Not a teenager who worries about such trivial things._ Nevertheless, the silence is growing increasingly awkward, and Arthur wonders if this was really the best way to obtain information about Kiku.

 _Clck. Clck. Clck._

"Could you— could you stop that, please?" Arthur gives Alfred a smile that is thinner than his patience.

Alfred returns the smile with a beaming, toothy grin of his own that is more a snarl than anything else. He raises the pen slowly and releases the top. _Clck_. "No."

 _Twat_ , Arthur thinks, and he is about to retaliate with a sharp retort when Alfred abruptly drops the pen and grabs his phone as it buzzes. "Text," he mutters in lieu of explanation, unlocking his phone and reading the message.

' _Come to the bathroom now,'_ it reads. Ten seconds later, ' _Now_.'

' _K_ ,' Alfred taps back.

"Gonna go check on Kiku," he says as he stands. "Be back in a sec." Petty as it is, he deliberately gives the pen one last click before placing it on the table. He then turns and heads towards the library exit, leaving behind an indignant Arthur.

' _Which bathroom_ ,' Alfred taps out slowly as he enters the hall, then looks up as he slips his phone into his hoodie pocket. The bathroom to the left of the library may seem like an obvious choice, but it is missing two mirrors and usually has the most people. There's actually a couple of bathrooms Kiku can be in; his method of choosing a bathroom is based off of an intricate system that involves categories such as privacy, cleanliness, location, and, according to Kiku, aesthetic. _I still don't get what he means by that_ , Alfred shakes his head as he makes his way down the hall. The one near the staircase right next to the English hallway is a better choice for privacy, but the feng shui or whatever is misaligned, something like that. The last bathroom is two floors above, a little ways into the history wing, which is by far the best bathroom— no one, save those who have classes in the history wing— wishes to climb a flight of stairs to get to a bathroom, hence it is cleaner, quieter, and smells the best.

 _Yeah, but Kiku hates to exercise. He likes clean things though. Exercise, clean things, exercise_ — Suddenly, the janitor's closet to his right flies open. "Hey—!" Alfred flinches back out of reflex, his body reacting faster than his mind can process the action. "The hell? Dude, you need to watch where you'rewoAH!" A hand grasps the front of his hoodie and yanks him roughly into the closet.

The first thing he registers is darkness. Alfred can feel his pupils contract and widen to adjust to the change in lighting, and he doesn't need a mirror to know that his irises will be glimmering softly, appearing as two luminescent rings floating eerily in the dark. The smell of moldy sponges, stagnant water, and dust assault his senses, along with the scent of none other than—

"Kiku, what the fuck?!"

"Why are your eyes glowing?"

"They're, they're not. They're just— glaring with anger because I'm in a dark closet full of used mops and buckets, literally, what the hell!?" Alfred quickly averts his gaze to the floor. "I need a goddamn light switch, I can't see anything, where is… here." Alfred scans the closet before locating the switch. He reaches over Kiku's head and flips on the light.

"How did you know where the switch was?" Kiku crosses his arms as the light flickers on and bathes the room in a dingy glow.

"What are you doing in here?" Alfred counters, mirroring Kiku's standoffish position. While his pupils change shape once more to adjust to the change in lighting, he pretends to take in his surroundings. "And why are you acting so weird? You literally ran out of the library, what was that about? You never run. Not to mention that I'm in a _closet_ right now— one that you yanked me in— how long were you waiting anyways, and how did you know when I was coming? Jesus, Kiku, that's just—"

"Arthur is attractive."

Much like the scent of asbestos, the statement hangs in the air.

"Sorry, what?"

Kiku huffs and nervously brushes his bangs to the side. "Did I stutter? Are you not listening?"

"You said that Arthur's hot, but I don't-"

"Exactly." Kiku gives a curt nod, posture impeccable, as if they were discussing mundane topics like the weather rather than… than boys.

 _Oh god, we're discussing boys. Oh god._ the implications of Kiku's statement hit Alfred with full force, propelling the conclusion out of his mouth before he can think. "Oh god, you like him?" Although Alfred is sure of the answer, he still has to ask. Just to make sure that the end of the world really is nigh.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"But didn't you say that one time that, uh, what was it?" Alfred pretends to think for a moment. "Oh yeah, that no guy in existence is able to meet your standards like the main characters of 'Free—'"

"Alfred."

"What? I'm just saying,'" Alfred holds up his hands in defense; Kiku's glare is practically a physical assault weapon. "I dunno, the guy gives me bad vibes."

"'Bad vibes?'" Kiku gives him a deadpan stare. "You have known him for what, a day? How can you be so sure of anything?"

 _Could say the same thing to you, pal._ But Alfred acquiesces with a sigh; this is not going to go anywhere. "I dunno, whatever, you do what you want. If you think he's attractive, then go ahead, but be careful, yeah?"

"You always worry too much." Kiku rolls his eyes. "Anyways, Arthur seems so cool. Did you hear his accent, ah."

Alfred closes his eyes slowly and pinches the bridge of his nose. _I can't believe I have to be the voice of reason here_. "Okay, Kiku, we live in England," he says carefully. "Arthur lives in England. You know that, right? Everyone has an English accent."

Kiku clucks his tongue in evident disapproval. "Alfred-san, please refrain from making remarks about something you do not understand."

 _And what do I not understand?!_ Alfred wants to screech, but he holds back the scathing response because... because, honestly, what does he understand from the situation? _Maybe I really don't get it._ Kiku has called him paranoid before; it's kind of hard not to be when you're nearly invincible and surrounded by fragile, squishy humans every day. Humans live human lives. Kiku is a human _. And… I'm not._

Kiku is doing the things that Alfred did once and forgot about years ago. Kiku is experiencing real emotions that mean something to him; how long has it been since Alfred has felt anything close to that, unadulterated by the pitfalls of eternal life? Perhaps it is that he doesn't understand. Can't understand. Kiku is living in the present, and that's a human thing to do. Alfred's, well, Alfred's just there. A hitchhiker on the intangible concept of time with no reason to count the days and years as they go by. _Kiku is doing this life thing for the first time,_ Alfred realizes. _What right do I have to meddle in that when I died fifty years ago?_

"...Alfred?"

 _Shit, alright, okay, get it together, Kiku's here. Now is not the time for an existential crisis._ "Alright, alright, sure. Sure. Why not. What's your plan," Alfred asks, struggling to hide the desolate tone that threatens to creep into his voice. _Shit, I have to do better than that. He needs me to be excited._ He clears his throat and tries again. "I mean, you have to have a plan, right? I'll be your wingman, c'mon. I'll give you that little _va va voom,_ make him see that you're his _raison d'être_ , and... a couple of other sexy French words. Yeah?"

Kiku relaxes and smiles softly at Alfred's exaggerated wink. "I am not sure, but remember that one episode of 'Ouran Highschool Host Club'?"

"Beginning or end? Because I think you're talking about the one with..."

Kiku and Alfred begin to construct elaborate, fantastical plans to win Arthur's affections as they make their way back to the library, each scheme crazier than the last. The mood is lighter, sanguine, and displays none of the insistent emptiness that threatens to tear Alfred apart from the inside out.

 _ **{-}**_

"Kirkland-san-"

"Please," says the Brit, waving a hand dismissively. "Call me Arthur." He leans forward and folds his hands under his chin, smiling coyly at Kiku.

Kiku shoots a glance at Alfred as if to say 'see? attractive.' Alfred gives him a small grin and looks back down at his phone. "Ah, well… Arthur-san. I am pleased that you have an interest in Japanese," Kiku says, suddenly thankful that he is incapable of blushing. "I am not the best teacher, but I think I can teach you a thing or two." _Or as much as you would like._

"That would be much appreciated," Arthur says, tilting his head to the side. "But for a moment, let us set Japanese aside. Let me get to know you first, tell me, Japanese is your first language, yes? Were you born in Japan, then?" As he speaks, he toys with a pen, casually flipping the utensil between his fingers.

Alfred glances up and frowns. _That's my pen. Now I have to burn it._

"Yes. I was born in Japan. I learned English here in America when I moved," Kiku replies eagerly.

"And when was that?"

"It is difficult to remember. After I was born."

 _Of course you don't remember_ , Arthur scoffs internally, but he allows none of his skepticism to show on his features. "Oh, so do you not recall much about Japan?" He attempts to twirl the pen again but fumbles with it, sending it skidding across the table with surprising speed before rolling over the edge and plummeting to the floor—

A pale hand darts down and catches it inches from the ground. If he weren't such a composed person, an expression of surprise would have shown itself on Kiku's face. He'd caught the pen mid-fall in a rare moment of reflex and coordination, skills that usually seemed to avoid him like the plague. "Your pen, Arthur-san," Kiku says softly, holding the pen out to Arthur. The Brit takes it, and at this moment, their hands touch.

Kiku finds himself back in his manga fantasy world, one where Japanese cherry blossom shed their flowers in a storm of rosé as young love blooms underneath the trees.

Alfred is just thoroughly confused and a bit disgruntled. _That is_ my _pen._

" _Arigatou_ , is it?" Arthur questions lightly, curling his hand around the pen and slipping it into his pocket.

"Yes, I mean, _hai_. _Doitashimashite_ ," Kiku responds, sounding slightly out of breath.

Alfred's grip tightens on his phone. _Alright, seriously, this is a problem. One, Kiku's completely enthralled by catching a pen, Arthur looks smug for no reason, and my pen is in his pocket, what the actual fuck? It's like everything he does is planned to look casual. I really don't like that guy. Ugh, it's just that paranoia..._

And yet, Alfred has no way of knowing exactly how right he is about Arthur.

Differentiating vampires from humans is no simple task, even for the most skilled agents; doing so is an unconventional mix of training and natural instinct, both of which coalesce with luck. Vampires and humans are almost exactly the same... with the exception of one being a bloodthirsty creature of chaos. Nevertheless, if one knows what to look for, and if one is observant enough to find what he is looking for, a vampire will not go undetected for long.

Arthur is certain that Kiku is who he is looking for, and his contentions aren't wrong— they're just a bit misguided:

For one, there is the smell that hangs in the air around Kiku. Arthur recognizes it as his signature scent: lemongrass, sage, mint, and thyme mixed with the bergamot smell of Earl Grey tea. The scent is proof enough on its own, for it is a scent that cannot exist without two things: a vampire and Arthur. To précise, every vampire expels pheromones that are customized to each and every human who happens to cross paths with a vampire. A scent, no matter how faint, is a subconscious goldmine of manipulation. In order to increase the chances of luring in prey— as if looks and charisma weren't enough— the human is attracted to _their_ scent, their personalized perfume. In this manner, without having to lift a finger, the vampire has already begun to ensnare its prey. For one person, a vampire may smell of lavender soap and petrichor, and, to another, the same vamp will smell of pencil shavings and old books. For Arthur, it is simply spices and tea. It is faint coming from Kiku, but the smell is there nevertheless, and it for sure betrays the presence of an otherworldly creature.

 _Strike one._

There are more characteristics, the majority of them less-telling, but they are still crucial in detecting a vampire. All vampires possess unnaturally alluring physical features as well as unusually sharp eyeteeth, crimson irises, and deep, purple bags under their eyes that look more like bruises than symptoms of insomnia. _Mostly strike two_ , for Arthur has dealt with craftier vampires and has seen a myriad of ways used to disguise these vampiric features. Contacts, hand warmers, retainers, makeup, he has seen it all, and, even then, Kiku still fits the vampiric mold with his jet black hair in juxtaposition to his pallid skin, dark eyes, and slim build.

Purposefully dropping the pen had been somewhat of a venture, but it had mildly served its purpose. Kiku had caught the pen, for one, but that was not the main reason; the physical contact was far more valuable than any impromptu test of reflexes. Kiku's skin had been cool and clammy. Not as cold as a corpse's, no, but still low enough in temperature to raise a few eyebrows.

Lastly, there are the behavioral features. Vampires have a certain mien about them, yet this is where most agents fail in differentiating vampires and humans. Raw skill and cut instincts come into play, and this? This is where Arthur excels. Perhaps it is that the confidence, reflexes, and archaic mannerisms of a vampire can be matched perfectly by Arthur himself; he can mirror a vampire with flawless precision, and this just might be what makes him the best.

 _Strike three_. Kiku raises more than enough red flags to be a prime suspect, and, as if existing solely to further incriminate Kiku, there is still a rather important piece of evidence left: height. Kiku does seem to be around 168 centimeters. This is the exact height that the width of the footprints and length of strides left near the carcass of the deer suggested. _Whether it is a stroke of luck or not, I seem to have found what I am looking for without much effort. Kiku Honda,_ Arthur concludes, _is the target._ His eyes are still fixed on Kiku, yet the teen seems unaware of Arthur's razor-like focus.

 _The appearance, characteristics, and match to the evidence cannot be coincidental. I must inform Ludwig as soon as possible; I am sure he will be pleased to leave Stratford upon Avon so early. I am done here, for now. Thank goodness for that_ — Arthur finds the socialization tedious and draining. He would give anything to be around people above the drinking age. _Ludwig is going to meet me in a pub. I will refuse to reveal any of my findings at a place that does not have an age restriction. That being said_ —

Arthur clears his throat and stands. "Well then," he says casually, placing his palms on the table and leaning over the wooden surface to look down at Kiku. "That was excellent, thank you, but I must take my leave now."

Kiku leans back, blinking rapidly up at Arthur. "Yes, alright," he manages to reply, glancing to the side at Alfred. "I hope we can meet again another time— for, for Japanese, of course."

"Yes," Arthur agrees, "or should I say _hai_?" He cocks his head and gives Kiku an aloof smile. "We will undoubtedly meet again soon. _Dewa mata_ , Kiku, Alfred." He slips the pen from his pocket and gives it a small _clck_ as he addresses the latter. With that, he straightens his tie, tosses the pen towards Kiku, and turns sharply on his heel to walk away from the table.

Indeed, Arthur knows precisely what to look for, and he is certainly observant enough to spot these clues. However, sometimes people see the things they want to see instead of what is actually there.

This is why Arthur doesn't glance back as he walks away, for, if he had, he would have seen Alfred watching him go, eyes wide and worried, and, in his hand, a pen.

* * *

 _ **A/N**_ **: this chapter fought me every inch of the way. Yes, Kiku's arc is minor. It's gonna add some more conflict and hopefully comedy. Lots of confusion for Arthur and Alfred tho. Now the fun stuff can BEGIN. Spoiler: this story isn't set in Stratford upon Avon for long. Our characters will go to POE HQ in a few chapters. How? You'll have to wait and see.**


	5. Act Two, Scene Two

**The Rose and Crown, Stratford upon Avon**

A figure, bundled in a thick coat and green scarf, strides through the streets of Stratford upon Avon. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched up to his ears in an attempt to ward off the chill.

He stops at one of the many storefronts. It is almost impossible to tell if the place is open, but he risks leaving his self-made cocoon of warmth to glance up at the sign swinging wildly in the wind. _The Rose and Crown_ , it reads. Arthur nods to himself. This is the place. He reaches out and pulls open the door.

Sounds of clinking and laughter spill out onto the watery streets, muffling the sharp _plinks!_ of freezing rain hitting the cobblestones. Splashes of light dance across puddles, illuminating the icy world outside. The small bell at the top of the door trills to announce his arrival.

 _Oh, much better_. Arthur sighs with relief, tugging the door shut behind him. Juxtaposed to the wintry scene outside, entering the pub is akin to entering another world. He shakes frozen droplets from his hair and unwinds the scarf from his neck, looping it loosely around his arm as he walks further into the pub. The scent of alcohol and smoke assault his senses, and even the air smells warm, Arthur notes. He allows himself to enjoy the ambiance of the pub for a few seconds more, then he begins to scrutinize the patrons. _Look for a table with a large man and several mugs of beer_ , he thinks to himself. That being said, the description would fit most people in the pub. _Which is exactly why this is an excellent place to meet. No one is going to be here who would recognize Beilschmidt or me, especially at one in the morning._ With its sloppy layout and hole-in-the-wall atmosphere, The Rose and Crown is the ideal place to meet without arousing suspicion.

There. Seated in the farthest corner of the pub, a broad-shouldered man sits alone. _Uncanny_ , Arthur smirks, making his way to the table. The plethora of empty— and full— glasses surrounding his fellow agent do not go unnoticed.

"Beilschmidt." Arthur tugs off his gloves finger by finger and presses them neatly together. " _The breeze_ — _the breath of God_ — _is still_ — _And the mist upon the hill, Shadowy_ — _shadowy_ — _yet unbroken..._ "

" _...Is a symbol and a token_ — _How it hangs upon ze trees, A mystery of mysteries_ ," Ludwig dips his head in greeting. "Kirkland. Sit down," he adds, draining the last of his beer. He sets the glass down and reaches for another.

As he sits, Arthur reaches across the table and flicks the rim of Ludwig's glass before it can reach his mouth. "Drinking, Ludwig? You are on the job, and there could be minors here."

Ludwig raises his eyebrows and takes a hearty gulp. Arthur, making jokes? There must be good news. So soon, too. He allows himself a quiet chuckle, the sound akin to boots on gravel. "You do have a point. But speaking of that, I got you something." Ludwig slides a glass half-filled with an amber liquid across the table. "If you talk of ze minors, you drink this."

The Brit perks up at the sight of the glass, dismissing Ludwig's remark about minors. He picks up the drink and examines its contents. A crease appears between his eyebrows as the liquid sloshes around the glass. He looks at Ludwig over the rim. "Soda?"

"You are a high school student, yes? Underage. Do not blow your cover." He chuckles again at Arthur's indignant sniff.

"Right, of course, _Mr_. Beilschmidt," Arthur retorts. "Although, I am quite sure it wouldn't bode well for a teacher to be out drinking on a school night."

Ludwig shakes his head and hides his smile by taking another drink. "If that is so, what does that say about the high school student?"

"Touché." Arthur raises his glass to Ludwig and takes a sip of the soda. "Oh god— this, this is disgusting," he sputters, making a face. "Ugh. Between you and your brother, I have had enough German humor to last me a lifetime." He sets the soda down gingerly and pushes the glass across the table. "But speaking of teaching, how is it going? You have already been here for a couple of days. Have you gone mad yet, dealing with teenagers and whatnot?"

Ludwig shakes his head. "It is not the worst cover," he offers in explanation.

The sentence appears to be simple and dispassionate, but Arthur knows better; coming from the stoic German, the sentiment is fond. "You know, Gilbert remarked to me the other day that he was having trouble replacing the old drill sergeant," he says. "Very stressed, he was. New recruits must be trained, but we are without an instructor..." Mirth glimmers impishly in Arthur's eyes.

"Maybe I will look into that," Ludwig says after a moment. "Now." He sits back and crosses his arms. All traces of good humor disappear from his expression. "To business."

"To business indeed. What have you found so far?"

"As a substitute teacher, I have limited reach of ze school," Ludwig begins. "As a student, you have more reach around ze school without raising as much suspicion as I would. As Gilbert told you at the briefing, I have been here for five days. It is not long, but it is long enough. Ze perimeter is established. Ze suspicion is not aroused. Ze logistics are clear enough, but they have nothing to do with your mission. Did Gilbert provide you with more information?"

"He did not."

"I did not think so. We still have ze same facts. No idea of ze prey it prefers, and ze physical description is only approximate height, human age, and male. We could be looking in ze wrong place even with ze precautions."

"Yet you have something," Arthur guesses, his voice sharp. He narrows his eyes. "There is a reason why you are here first and why I have been sent here now, alone."

Ludwig nods. "Correct. In another situation, I would widen our parameters. I would wait to enter any new agents. I have a lead, so you are here."

"I see..." Arthur breathes. "We are not in the wrong place. Gilbert elected not to tell me because he wanted an unbiased look at the situation before I was informed of the possible targets. This is a mission though, and that makes no sense, unless—" He glances at Ludwig, his brow wrinkled in confusion. "Unless..."

Ludwig's expression urges Arthur to continue.

"There is something else. Another factor that has nothing to do with the target. Something to do with my position at POE?" At Ludwig's confirmation, Arthur's heartbeat quickens. "My performance is crucial, you wanted to see what I could do with these details alone. A promotion of sorts is in store if I do well…?"

"Correct." Ludwig slides a glass of beer over to Arthur, who takes it eagerly. "And Gilbert told me you were unhappy with the mission at first. How do you like German humor now, yes?"

"Yes, yes, Gilbert is the embodiment of comedy." Arthur takes a hearty swig of the alcohol. The back of his neck is red, flushed with delight at the thought of a promotion. It all makes so much more sense now; the blatant lack of information was not just circumstance, but also a test. _One_ _that I am sure I_ _passed if_ _Ludwig's_ _lead is_ _the_ _same_ _as_ _my_ _own_.

"I will show you the lead now, but I think you already know who it is." Ludwig places what appears to be a coin on the table between him and Arthur. The dim lighting in the bar slides off the surface of the coin, as if the object itself rejects light. It pulses twice before projecting a small hologram into the air. The other patrons in the pub would see nothing more than a shimmer in the air between the two men, but to Ludwig and Arthur, it would seem as if a minuscule Japanese boy has taken form on the table, surrounded by several streams of translucent text.

"Kiku Honda," the two say simultaneously.

Ludwig glances at Arthur and nods approvingly. "As I thought. Without my role, you would have performed well."

Arthur accepts the praise without a word and chooses to focus on the hologram instead of meeting Ludwig's gaze. He reaches out and allows his fingers to graze the surface of the hologram. The pixels swirl around his hand as he swipes two fingers across the image and taps it once. The hologram begins to morph. 'Kiku Honda' springs into a crouch as its features twist into an ugly snarl. Brown eyes darken to crimson as fangs slide past its mouth and small drops of venom dribble from its lips. "Amazing picture quality," Arthur remarks. "New feature, I presume?"

"Yes. von Bock cleared them field-ready a few days ago. The techies have been coming out with a lot of new equipment."

"Oh, excellent. I love new toys." Arthur enlarges the image and watches the transformation again. A few added details have changed the Japanese boy from an innocuous human to a vampire. The transition is flawless, as if sliding into a second skin.

"I am quite sure that we have found what we are looking for. Or, at least, that we have a prime suspect." He spins the hologram again to view the pseudo-vampire from a different angle. "Not only this, but I chose to engage yesterday, and I have outlined my contentions. Since he is a lead, I assume that you have not engaged yet. Would you like to hear my contentions?"

Ludwig's eyes, a hue lighter than ice, prompt him to continue.

"I first met with him two days ago under the guise of learning Japanese. Today, or, rather, yesterday, was the third interaction. Whilst my contentions are strong, I must get him alone; every time I see him, he is with another student: Alfred Jones.

"Kiku Honda possesses vampiric pheromones. I have yet to see him consume anything despite the fact that we meet at lunch. His mien seems archaic, his mannerisms becoming all the more odd when around me. It is possible that he is unsure how to interact intimately with another human other than Jones. Besides this, Honda is a loner, only adding to the former contention. Not to mention he looks the part, but,—" Arthur gestures to the hologram, "—we already know this."

He reaches for the silhouette of Kiku and taps it twice. The coin pulses once then stills as the hologram flickers pixel-by-pixel away. "It cannot be chance, especially since he is your lead and matches with the evidence we have so far. Have you found anything else? Records, perhaps?" Arthur finishes the beer and sets the glass aside.

"Ze student education records are inaccessible. Except for ze ones from this school."

"Nothing from before secondary school?"

"Yes, nothing. But from secondary school, we have a goldmine of information on him. Identification, medical records, birth, and family. Ze details are in here." Ludwig gestures to the coin. "Carry on investigating Kiku Honda. If this is it, we can go home a little earlier than planned. And Kirkland." He pauses until Arthur meets his stare. "Ze last kill was last week. Vampires feed often. Any day now."

Arthur nods, aware of Ludwig's unspoken warning. He slides the 'coin' off the table and glances around the pub. None of the patrons have grown suspicious of their enigmatic exchange. Excellent. He closes his fist around the coin and stands from the table. "Good night, then, Beilschmidt. We will meet again soon." He loops his scarf around his neck and tugs on his gloves, already dreading the walk through the icy streets.

"Indeed." Ludwig raises his glass in farewell. "In the meantime… pray for a sunny day."

* * *

 ** _A/N_** : **K so this? Is a really short chapter. It doesn't really fit anywhere else. It would make the next chapter way too cluttered, and just. Mess everything else up. The next one is pretty long, and it's in the making. Please review. ALSO. This chapter is dedicated to _FlowerFoxWings._ This author's review really motivated me to get writing, and it is thanks to them that this chapter is being posted today. :D**


	6. Act Two, Scene Three

**Act Two, Scene Three: 15%**  
 **Dedicated to LeFay Strent. :3**

* * *

 _"Was ever book containing such vile matter_  
 _So fairly bound? Oh, that deceit should dwell_  
 _In such a gorgeous palace!"_  
 ** _— Romeo and Juliet_**

* * *

 **Stratford upon Avon Secondary School**

Arthur Kirkland has never once made a mistake in his career.

Failing to acquire a target? No. Injuring himself? Absolutely not. Charged with a parking fine? Blasphemous! From the pettiest blunders to the direst of errors, Arthur has made none; his record is clear, almost pretentiously so, and he prides himself on his unblemished history.

But there's a first time for everything.

Beating up a dull-witted Cuban behind a school to defend a kid he barely knows is definitely a new experience. As it may sound, this is not Arthur's fault. No, Arthur is perfect, and these circumstances were completely beyond his control. A series of factors were to blame. Observe:

1). The days following Arthur's meeting with Ludwig were neither sunny nor productive. In fact, they are the exact opposite; Kiku remains elusive, and the days remain dreary. Since the kill, a total of twelve days had passed, and two more will make two weeks.  
1a). Ergo, there is a vampire loose in Stratford upon Avon who hasn't fed in almost two weeks, most likely half-mad with thirst.

2.) Yet nothing happens. The forest remains clear of corpses, Kiku yields no incriminating fruit, and the days pass slower and slower.  
2a). Arthur is a man of action; waiting idly does not suit his character.  
2b). _Nothing is still happening._

Is he to blame, then, as his frustrations mount past his control? Is he at fault because the sight of Stratford upon Avon Secondary School boils his blood? That he was irrevocably late when he took a different route to school? And not to mention there is still a third and final factor that excuses Arthur entirely from any sort of blame:

3.) Everything else is everyone else's fault.  
3a). Meaning a certain ill-mannered Vietnamese bully by the name of Nguyễn Kim Liên and her accomplice, (the dull-witted Cuban), Carlos.

So here he is, those three reasons and their subpoints hurtling him towards volatility, as he hurries across the parking lot to the school doors. If it had been any other day, the walk would take him a few minutes, but today, Arthur stops. Sounds are coming from the gap between the gymnasium and the main school building. Peculiar sounds.

 _Getting to class can wait,_ Arthur decides, darting towards the building. He drops his satchel to the ground and flattens himself against the wall. As voices arise from the alley, he peers around the corner…

"Well, if it isn't fat-ass Jones."

There's Alfred with back his pressed against the wall. His backpack lays several feet away, its contents strewn across the ground. Two figures advance toward him with malice, a boy and a girl, from the looks of it.

The girl seems to be the leader of the situation. She sashays toward Alfred with the kind of confidence only self-delusion can buy. The guy that follows her is much taller and several pounds of muscle heavier. He says something to Alfred, too low for Arthur to hear, but he can tell that it is meant to be intimidating. Taken aback, Arthur strains to hear the rest of the dialogue. The girl steps forward to speak next. Somehow, before she opens her mouth, Arthur briefly wonders what his hands would look like around her throat.

"Looks like you and the Japanese boytoy found a new friend. How much are you paying him to stick around?"

Alfred doesn't reply.

"Answer me, dumbass. I asked how much are you paying the new boy to tolerate your ugly mug and Kiku Honda's cartoon fetish?"

"Don't talk about Kiku," Alfred murmurs, barely loud enough for Arthur to make out the words. He winces as his assailant's gaze turns rancorous.

"Oh, I know you weren't just talking to me. Do you think he was talking to me, Carlos?" Without waiting for a reply, Liên addresses Alfred again. "Were you talking to me? I'll answer that for you: you weren't. And I'll let you off easy if you do two things." She holds up two fingers. "One, apologize to me. Two, agree that your friend Kiku is an honor-roll wannabe who only came to England because he wasn't smart enough to compete in Japan. Got it?"

"I said don't talk about Kiku that way." The protest is quieter this time, but firm.

A loud smack reverberates through the alley. Arthur hisses in disapproval. _If you're going to stand up to someone, that's the wrong way to do it._ He watches as Alfred stumbles backward, hits the wall, and trips. _I've seen enough. I'll alert an authority once I get to the main building._ He would have left the pathetic scene right then and there had he looked away a second sooner, but the expression on Alfred's face catches his attention. It's not angry, not indignant, not even miffed. Instead, he looks resigned. Disheartened by the harassment, but accustomed to it.

 _What is wrong with people._ Arthur realizes that he. He is furious. He is hundreds of miles away from his home and tasked with looking for an elusive vampire in some godforsaken tourist town — a vampire that could very well be killing off students right now— yet here is a prissy teenager with the audacity to spew more malice into the world. _Not on my watch._

Arthur strides into the alley. "That is enough." The command seems to arch over the heads of Liên, Carlos, and Alfred, and all three freeze and the weight of its tone.

 _Is that, is that Arthur?_ Alfred's raises his gaze from the ground, and upon confirming his thought, his heart sinks. Arthur's smug face is the last thing he wants to see at this moment.

Liên is just as, if not more, displeased than Alfred. "Who are you." She drags her gaze over Arthur's form. "Oh, it's you. New guy." She tilts her head, considering his presence, and wrongly decides that he is irrelevant. "Hm, well, no matter. Move along now, I'm quite busy."

"Excuse me?" Arthur asks in disbelief. Did this, this girl sass him? Him? An adult? A trained agent working to save her trivial life?

"Excuse me?" Liên mimics. Her upper lip curls in annoyance. "If you're that good at standing still with your mouth open, then you could make some money off that talent. I'm sure someone out there has a kink for retards. Now, I said to go. Why are you still standing there?" She waves her hands, motioning for him to leave the alley. "Shoo!"

"...Alfred?"

"Y-yeah?" Alfred's head snaps up just in time to see Arthur toss his jacket in his general direction. He snatches it from the air, confused, and watches as Arthur's expression morphs into an impassive mask. "Arthur?"

"Hold on to it," Arthur says in lieu of an explanation. At Alfred's perplexed frown, Arthur glances down at the teen and gives him a charismatic, jaunty wink. _Worry not_ , it seems to convey. He then faces Liên and Carlos. A pleasant, anodyne smile graces his features.

 _Oh, fuck_. Alfred scoots away from the truculent trio. _Shit is about to go down._

"What was your name again?" Arthur inquires, rolling up his sleeves. At Carlos' dumbfounded expression, he chuckles. "Oh, worry not, I don't prefer to get dirty, that's all. Now, your names, what were they?"

"Nguyễn Kim Liên," Liên snaps, shoving Carlos aside. "And if you don't prefer to get dirty, then leave. You shouldn't associate with filth like this." She gestures to Alfred, who is peering at the scene with invested interest, Arthur's jacket clutched to his chest.

"Oh?" Arthur cocks a brow. "You misunderstand, darling: I was talking about you."

"Excuse me?!"

"The tables have turned. You heard me, Liên. Now, how about this? You and your brute of a boyfriend can apologize to Alfred here, and we'll all be on your way. If not, well, then there will be consequences." He shrugs as if the situation was out of his jurisdiction.

"I know that you had better not be talking to me. Because if you are, boy, then you have no idea what you are dealing with. I am Nguyễn Kim Liên—"

Arthur lets out an exasperated sigh. "Yes, yes, I am aware, thank you. We've been over this. And please don't tell me that your father will hear about this or whatever; just like me, I'm sure he would rather not like to hear about it."

"I don't know who you are, or who you think you are, but no one talks to me like that. No one!" Liên's voice grows higher and higher into a shrill shriek. "I don't know what you get out of defending a fat piece of shit like Jones, but you need to step out of the way and keep walking. Leave, or I, I will make you!"

"Will you?"

"Oh, I have no doubt that I will!" She is shaking now, her face flushed with rage. Carlos stands to the side, unsure of what to do; very few people actually choose to confront Liên and suffer her high-pitched, obnoxious wrath. "Because at the end of the day, you? Are still a prick, and he? Is still a nobody. Me, I'm going places, but the two of you don't know how to act. So pack up, and leave. Now." Liên delivers what she believes to be her coup de grâce, her chin high, eyes hardly more than slivers of gleaming amber: "Actually, why don't you go ahead and off yourselves, do something productive for once. The world would be a better place without you, both of you!"

Now hearing Liên's insults directed at someone else for the first time, they seem far more abhorrent, and Alfred grimaces at their callousness.

To Arthur, these words are nothing more than petty jibes from an insolent brat with too much ego, but when he catches a glimpse of Alfred's pained expression, his anger increases tenfold.

" _What is wrong with you_?" he hisses. The question is saturated with venom. He advances on Liên's group, his eyes livid. "What if you succeeded, hm? Would that make you happy? If the people you talked to like that stopped coming to school one day? Perhaps you'd wait, crafting new insults, little jibes you somehow find clever. But you'd never get to use them. Why? Because you would have killed someone— killed someone! Is that what you want? What you truly, honestly desire? To see someone else die because of your words? What is wrong with you? The world is filthy enough without people like you who insist on spewing dirt from their mouths because they can."

"Oh, please," Liên dismisses Arthur's argument with a wave of her hand. "If someone is stupid enough to kill themselves—"

"I. Was. Not. Finished," Arthur growls, now chest to chest with Liên. The words fall from his mouth without hesitation — he almost spits out each sentence without knowing the next. "You think that a couple of petty jokes and jeers will get you somewhere? You think that picking on someone else will make you feel better? Well, I have news for you: they don't. You are nothing— nothing— compared to the universe. You think you are bigger because you can make someone else feel small? False." He stops to chuckle, a low, glacial sound. "False," he repeats again as he tilts his head, considering the girl in front of him. He reaches out and tucks a lock of Liên's hair behind her ear, the move so tender it seems an insult, and as he leans forward, his lips brush her ear as he murmurs his final sentence: "I've seen true horrors, love, and you will never compare."

—And then he's gone from in front of her, and Carlos is a little ways away, chest heaving, fists raised. "Try that again!" he growls. "Try that again."

Arthur blinks. He brings up a hand to touch the side of his face, where Carlos' right hook had flown past seconds earlier. "I'm sorry, did you just attempt to hit me?" he asks, incredulous. "Not only was that a pitiful attempt, but it was also quite rude. I suggest that you do not try that again." A glare punctuates the sentiment, but Carlos refuses to be intimidated.

"Te voy a dar un tronpon por la boca, fool— you talk too much." Carlos spits at Arthur's feet. _Gonna show that puny gilipollas what happens when he messes with Liên_. He cocks his fist and charges at Arthur with a bullish snarl.

Arthur sidesteps the blow with ease. Carlos' momentum sends him reeling off balance towards the wall. "And here I was, thinking that I wouldn't have to resort to such violence this early in the morning." He watches as Carlos slams his hand against the brick to halt himself. "Are you done?"

 _I suppose not,_ he thinks, as he ducks Carlos' second charge, then his third, fourth, and fifth swing. With each attempt, Carlos grows more and more enraged, and each blow grows more and more reckless. After dodging a fierce undercut that barely misses his chin, Arthur leaps backward and lands in a low stance. Thinking Arthur to be vulnerable, the Cuban flexes his fists and runs forward. He realizes his mistake too late as Arthur twists on his heel, raises his leg, and kicks upwards.

Carlos' head snaps back with a disturbing _crack_! He staggers away from the Brit with a pained shout, slamming into the wall behind him. He brings up a hand to his nose. It comes away red.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god." Liên covers her mouth and stumbles backward. She retches as blood drips from Carlos' nose and bleeds into his mouth, turning his spit crimson as it bubbles past his lips. "Carlos, Carlos, let's go." She darts forward and places a hand on Carlos' shoulder.

"Off." Carlos shoves her away. He turns back towards Arthur and clenches his fists.

"Carlos, please, let's leave," Liên whispers. Her eyes stay locked on Arthur, her expression timorous in juxtaposition to the haughty smirk she had brandished minutes earlier.

"You best listen to the girl," Arthur says. "Apologize and walk away now, or else you soon won't be walking at all."

Carlos spits out a wad of blood.

"Very well." Arthur steps forward.

Liên stumbles back and raises her hands. "Okay, okay!" she shrieks. "We'll apologize, we'll apologize! We'll apologize." Chest heaving, she turns to Alfred. "We're sorry. We're sorry, okay? We're going." Her eyes never leave Arthur as she tugs Carlos to the mouth of the alley.

 _Good riddance._ Arthur straightens his tie and watches Liên and Carlos until the pair is out of sight. Once the alley is empty of the two, he turns and approaches Alfred. "Are you alright?"

"This," Alfred says from the ground, looking up at Arthur with wide eyes, "is the best day of my life."

Arthur doesn't know how to respond to that. "Er... Right, well, I am sure she deserved it." The back of his neck flushes red. "Now, we'll be late to school. Come on— here." He crouches down and offers Alfred a hand.

"Thanks," Alfred says breathlessly, grasping Arthur's hand.

"Your hands are freezing," Arthur remarks, hoisting Alfred up from the ground. "Are you not cold?"

"Er… no," Alfred says, quickly retracting his hand. ""It's a short walk; I don't really get cold. And I woke up late, forgot my gloves at home, too, y'know…" To stop his awkward ramblings, he walks away to pick up his backpack. Stooping over to scoop it from the ground, he blinks in wonder, still stunned by the previous events. "Just. Wow. Wow. You just friggin'— shut her down. Can I just— Whew."

"You know, that was a half-assed apology," Arthur remarks. "Sorry about that, I—"

Alfred shakes his head. "No, no, that was great. To be honest, I really don't care about the apology or whatever. What you did though, just, damn. Don't think I've ever seen someone destroy someone else with that sort of... skill, I dunno, but wow. Wow," he repeats.

"You should have been the one to say it all. You have got to stand up for yourself, defend yourself."

Alfred raises an eyebrow. "You're telling me to get into fights?"

Arthur glances over at Alfred, who grins. "Well, no, no, not exactly…" he trails off. "Actually, yes. You know what, do get into fights." Arthur recalls Liên's caustic smirk. "You can not let people treat you like that, or else that is how people will treat you for the rest of your life. So, do get into fights. Do something about it, yeah? Living is not a crime, and neither is making your place in the world. It gets better, I can promise you that."

Alfred falls silent. He looks back at the gap between the school buildings, then back at Arthur, his brow scrunched in concentration. "...That's, that's a good point," he says finally.

Arthur simply nods. The rest of the walk, they spend in silence.

 ** _{-}_**

Perhaps, Alfred ponders, Arthur Kirkland is not so bad after all.

Perhaps, Alfred considers, I misjudged him in the beginning.

Perhaps, Alfred decides, I wouldn't mind him with Kiku after all.

The suspicion from before was nothing. Stupid. Embarrassing, now that Alfred looks back on it. Whatever tension that had gripped him in the library was foolish; it was misplaced vexation, belligerence left over from his own frustrations aimed at Arthur. _Arthur_. Arthur, who was willing to stand up for Alfred, willing to fight — fight — for him. There are worse people Kiku could get attached to, Alfred concludes.

He replays Arthur's words in his head: _Do get into fights._ Huh. Not so bad advice coming from a not so bad guy.

 **Residence of Kiku Honda, Stratford upon Avon**

"Kiku. What are you doing."

"Nothing."

 _Right, sure_. Alfred rolls his eyes and wanders over to Kiku, who is sprawled out in the middle of the floor, his nose glued to his phone. "What're you so fixated on?" he tries again.

"Nothing," Kiku repeats. His eyes never leave the screen.

Alfred nudges Kiku's side with his foot. When his friend doesn't respond, he makes a face and bends down, attempting to peer over Kiku's shoulder. "Doesn't look like nothing. What are you doing?"

"Nothing." He rolls away from Alfred and sits up.

Alfred huffs. "Kiku, I'm gonna steal your phone and look at what you're doing if you don't tell me."

"No, you won't," Kiku clutches his phone to his chest. "You couldn't if you tried— and no, no, that is not a challenge," he adds, but he is too late; his heart sinks as a devious smirk spreads across Alfred's face.

Although he had been across the room seconds earlier, Alfred now appears in front of Kiku, who blinks, taken aback. Alfred had just been— _what_?

"Kiks, you make it too easy." Using his friend's surprise to his advantage, Alfred plucks the phone from Kiku's hand and dangles it in front of his face. At Kiku's displeased frown, Alfred's smirk grows wider. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was this the thing you didn't want me to take? My bad."

Kiku blinks. Two can play at that game. "What's my password," he inquires flatly, the question almost listless. Now it is Alfred who is taken aback at Kiku's disinterest, and he uses the opportunity to swipe at his phone.

"Ah— no." Alfred catches Kiku's wrist and holds the phone further out of reach. "Really, Kiku? 'What's my password?'" he mimics. "When you were in you Vocaloid phase, it was 0831, the date of Hatsune Miku's birthday. When you were into Paris, it was some random, new French word every week. Kiku, please, it probably has something to do with Arthur Kirkland. Oh, I know, let's try 'Kiku Kirkland.' Or how about 'Arthur Honda.' Or, even better, Arthur-chan—"

"Alfred—"

"You don't want me to continue? You want your phone back? Then tell me, Kiku, whatcha doin?" He offers Kiku his phone. "Hm? Hmm? Hmmm?"

"You are the worst," Kiku declares. He snatches his phone from Alfred's hand, stomps past him, and throws himself onto the couch. "If you must know, which you don't, I am looking up horoscopes."

"I thought you didn't believe in horoscopes?" The phrase is half question, half statement. "Why are you— oh. Oh. Oooh." Realization hits Alfred like a bag of bricks. "Horoscopes. Uh-huh." Alfred wanders over to Kiku and leans against the back of the couch. "Whose horoscopes, Kiku?" When his friend doesn't answer, Alfred's grin grows wider. "Whose horoscopes, Kiku?"

"Mine."

"And?"

"And Arthur's."

"Who?" Alfred asks, cupping his hand around his ear. "Adam, was it? Antonio? Aaron? Couldn't quite hear you. Come again? What was it? Please repeat."

"You heard what I said."

"So stubborn." Alfred hops over the back of the couch and settles himself beside Kiku. "Alright, so you're lookin' up horoscopes. What's the verdict? How compatible are you and Artie-chan?"

"Don't do that. Don't say that."

"Why? Is it because I sound like a love-crazed anime schoolgirl? Because that's you, not me— _ah_!" Kiku shoves him, and Alfred almost topples off of the couch. "Such violence!" he exclaims, tentatively reclaiming his position. "Can't believe I'm in the presence of such a savage. What's your sign anyways? Are you a, uh, Sag— Sayga— Sacagawea— no, no, that's not it. Er, how about a Girmanny?"

"It is Sagittarius. And Germini," Kiku corrects. "And I," he says, his voice dripping with indignance as he proudly places a hand on his chest, "am an Aquarius. Arthur is a Taurus."

"Huh." Alfred tilts his head. "So you actually believe that stuff or what?"

"I do not believe in a lot of things, but I regularly indulge in fantasy worlds based off of cartoons. Horoscopes are not the weirdest thing I have seen or researched."

"True, very true." Alfred nods sagely. "So gimme some proof. You're an aquarium—"

"— _Aquarius_ —"

Alfred suppresses a smirk. "Okay, an Aquarius. Whatever. What are they like? Is any of it true? Or accurate, I should say."

"I was born in February; I'm an Aquarius. Of course it is accurate." At Alfred's deadpan look, Kiku rolls his eyes and continues. "We tend to be independent and aloof, more on the shy and quiet side. We tend to be weak in areas regarding emotional expression… _eto_ … We tend to indulge in spontaneous passions, so we have a variety of interests and hobbies. We hate boring situations, are very mysterious, and hard to understand."

"I'm feelin' the last one right now." At Kiku's unimpressed glare, Alfred rolls his eyes. "Okay, I mean, that sounds a lot like you, but those terms are kinda vague? What's your horoscope for today?"

Kiku pretends to consider his phone for a few minutes. "Ah, here it is. It says that I will be in the presence of an annoying antagonist who seeks to drive me insane."

"Saucy. What's it actually say?"

"That I should give beauty and love where it is needed, keeping ego issues aside for a while."

"Mmph." Alfred purses his lips. "Alright, that is super vague. Literally, anything could happen and you could spin it to fit the horoscope. There's no way people believe this stuff."

"Thousands of people subscribe to daily horoscopes," Kiku points out.

After deliberating for a few seconds, Alfred nods. _Fair enough_. "I was born in July. What's my sign? And what are they like?"

"You are a Cancer." Kiku pauses and gives Alfred a once over. "Accurate." He ignores Alfred's exaggerated gasp and continues. "Cancers tend to be compassionate and good companions, as they are very sensitive. They sense exactly what others are thinking and feeling." He gives Alfred another look. "This is not accurate, as every time I am annoyed, your goal seems to be to increase that annoyance at whatever cost."

"No, no, I can tell when you're annoyed, so I ignore it. Also, also!" He cuts Kiku off before the Japanese teen can protest. "It's technically not my fault, because I'm a Cancer, so. It's my moon sign or whatever. Blame it on the stars."

"If that is so, then…" Kiku scrolls down and stifles a grin, suddenly becoming a lot more invested in Alfred's horoscope. "Cancers tend to be moody, insecure, and stubborn. It says here that if you get into a fight, you won't do well because you'll end up hitting someone way stronger than you. Do you still think that the signs are vague?"

 _Way too close to home_ , Alfred shivers. "Okay, that's actually pretty accurate. What's uh, what's your horoscope for tomorrow? Wait, no, how about this— what's your romance sign for tomorrow?"

Kiku consults his phone. "It says that there are a lot of ups and downs to navigate this month." he ignores Alfred's disbelieving snort. "Here: 'An optimistic trine between Venus and Jupiter retrograde points you in love's direction, but you may not reach your desired destination.' So I have a good chance." Unbothered by the uncertain ending to the horoscope, Kiku can't hide a giddy grin. _Love's direction, it seems like a good thing to me._

Alfred bites his lip to hide his own smile at Kiku's reaction. "Alright, that's pretty good. What's my horoscope for the…the uh, next week? My weekly horoscope. Those are things, right?"

"Yes. They are. It says, ooh. 'Stay indoors as much as possible; Venus beguiles the wrath of Mercury.'" Kiku frowns. "That does not sound good."

"Figures," Alfred grumbles. "Alright, so what's the compatibility between an Aquarius and Taurus, you and Arthur?"

"I do not know."

 _No way. That's the first thing he would have looked up as soon as he figured out Arthur's sign._ Alfred glances sideways at Kiku and squints. Kiku pointedly looks away.

"I said I do not know, Alfred, stop looking at me."

Alfred doesn't look away.

"Alfred, stop." Kiku shoves a nearby pillow in Alfred's face, who deflects it with ease.

"Yes, you do," Alfred finally counters. "But ya know what? Imma look it up myself."

"Alfred, no." Kiku groans, grabbing another pillow and covering his face. "Don't."

"Yeah?" Alfred scoots closer on the couch. Aspiring to be as obnoxious as possible, he snatches Kiku's pillow and tosses it across the room. "Yeah? Yeah? What're you gonna do if I look up you and Artie's compatibility? You gonna disown me?"

"Yes," Kiku says gravely. "You will be dishonored."

"Cute," Alfred smirks. "You know, it's really hard to tell sometimes if you're being serious or not, but you know what? Dishonor only matters in Japan, Kiks, and since I don't see any swords around here to commit ritual seppuku with, I'm just going to go ahead and look up your fortune." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "Ooh, shiny. Dontcha love technology? I bet you regret giving me your wifi password now."

" _Kirai_!"

"Awe, love you too, man. Alrighty, opening up safari. Tapping the search bar, here we go." As he types out each word, Alfred reads them aloud, easily deflecting each pillow Kiku throws at him in retaliation. "What… is— Kiku, you need to work on your aim, it's pitiful— the… compatibility… between… an Aquarius —Kiku, put down your replica; it's fake for a reason— oh my GOD."

Kiku winces as Alfred snorts loudly. He had indeed looked up the compatibility between signs as soon as he knew Arthur's birthday, but… well. This is exactly why he hadn't been eager to tell Alfred.

"Fifteen percent compatibility. Fifteen percent!" Alfred howls with laughter. "I can't believe it. _Fifteen percent_! That low?! You have a better chance of hooking up with literally anyone else in the school if they're not a Taurus. You still believe in horoscopes now? Have the stars doth doomed thy fate? I can't believe this— fifteen percent!"

"Shush," Kiku groans. Hoping to drown out Alfred's rambunctious laughter, he grabs another pillow and mushes his face into it. It fails to muffle the occasional giggle and mutter of "fifteen percent."

* * *

 ** _A/N_ : Looking up horoscopes and joking around with them used to be one of my favorite things to do with an old friend of mine. :) It's fun stuff to indulge in for a bit. Anyways, this was a fun chapter. Long time coming too! We're about to set the major plot in motion. Get ready!**

 **NOTE: Eto is the equivalent to the Japanese um or uhm.**


	7. Act Two, Scene Four

**Act Two, Scene Four: Violent Ends**

" _These violent delights have violent ends  
_ _And in their triumph die, like fire and powder  
_ _Which, as they kiss, consume."_

 _ **-Romeo and Juliet**_

* * *

 **Alcester Forest**

The animal is magnificent in its death. It is — or once was — a buck with a wide set of antlers and an impressive stature. Despite the harsh winter, Arthur can tell that it had been well-fed; whereas now, its hide has sunken in over its bones, and its flesh and muscles are nothing more than a soupy mess. Adding more still to the macabre scene is the dried blood splattered on the ground, an impossibly loud color against the snow that, given the surrounding forest's dull mix of green, brown and white, makes it difficult to look away.

"A large buck, drained completely. It must be getting desperate. Hastily done too." Arthur kneels next to the corpse and notes the bite marks on its hindquarters, torso, and forelegs. Long fillets of flesh have been stripped from the buck's back. The main puncture wound is right under its ribs, an awkward place, but heavy in terms of blood flow. _As we deduced last time, this vampire is either inexperienced or just plain messy._ With _tsk_ of disgust, Arthur straightens and glances over at Ludwig. "How long ago?"

His fellow agent answers at once in his usual, austere manner. "Three, four hours. Five at most. It is well-preserved, but the heart is still warm."

"I see." Arthur's eyes travel from the buck's mangled torso to its head. Its eyes, frosted over with ice, give Arthur the impression of grotesque Christmas ornaments. "I assume you came across this while on patrol?"

"Yes."

 _Considering how low it has sunken into the snow, and given its near-absent heat signature, I'd figure it has been three hours since death. And another three before it would disappear. Come summer, there would be no evidence left. Clever, but not quite enough._ "I see," Arthur hums again, looking back down at the corpse. "It is lucky you decided to walk the perimeter at this hour. Snow is coming tonight, and the evidence could have been erased if you had waited another few hours."

"Indeed," Ludwig nods. "I have already compared it to the last," he adds as Arthur pulls out a bag of equipment. Despite Ludwig's statement, however, Arthur doesn't listen. He continues to remove a small vile, a bottle of clear liquid, and the silver chip Ludwig had given him a few days ago.

"A second opinion would do well in this situation," Arthur says. "We mustn't get ahead of ourselves." He ignores Ludwig's dubious snort as he gathers a sample of the buck's clotted blood into the glass vile. He then adds a few drops of the bottle's liquid to the blood and mixes the two until yellowish chunks rise to the top. This is serum, or what is left of blood after it has congealed. The concentration of vampiric antigens — or, in simpler terms, vampiric toxins— left over from the vampire's venom within the serum will tell him how potent the actual venom is. With that information, he can conclude the approximate age of the vampire. If it matches the data gathered from the last corpse, then the vampire's identity remains consistent.

Next, he activates the silver chip, which has access to all the mission's data thus far. A hologram displays the concentration of antigens found in the blood of the kill from two weeks ago. "As I thought. The venom matches," Arthur concludes after a minute. He taps the hologram twice. Following the action, pictures of the doe's remains blink pixel-by-pixel into existence. He enlarges them one by one to survey the buck's injuries in comparison. "As do the bite marks."

Ludwig refrains from replying, for he and Arthur both know that he isn't after a second opinion. He merely distrusts any first opinion, and it matters not where it comes from. The agent has a desire to see the evidence displayed in front of him, found by his own hands. Both a curse and a blessing, in Ludwig's opinion. As meticulous as Arthur is, and as helpful as it can be, working with him can be rather… strenuous. _Eager as he is to catch this target, he wastes time with this_ , the German frowns, thinking that Arthur's actions are somewhat of a contradiction. _And yet it is not my place to worry about it. And that is that._ Abandoning the train of thought, Ludwig instead focuses on their surroundings. Although the forest stretches several kilometers in every direction, the vampire could return to feed a second time.

Or, as Kirkland says, Kiku could return to feed a second time. As soon as he had arrived at the scene, the British agent had insisted that Kiku was the culprit. The evidence is stacked against him so far, and he was absent from school today while the buck had been killed. _Coincidence?_ the Brit had declared, raising an eyebrow in triumph. _I think not._

Ludwig agrees. He would prefer to find a second incriminating clue to confirm the identity of Stratford upon Avon's mystery vampire, however. There is indeed such a piece of evidence at the scene, but it is up to Arthur to make the connection. He is, after all, the one who had grown familiar with the target over the past two weeks. So with unyielding patience, Ludwig waits as Arthur finishes with the corpse. He then walks to the mouth of the clearing and begins to comb the area inch by inch. He is scrupulous in his search, and it pays off: there, a few yards away, a pen. Arthur knows that pen.

"Beilschmidt?" he calls over his shoulder, nudging the object over with his foot. "Did you notice this?"

Ludwig strides over to Arthur. "Yes," he replies upon catching sight of the pen.

"Why did you let me comb the entire scene?"

Ludwig shrugs. "You would have insisted on doing that anyways. And I knew that you would want to look at it in its natural state. I did not handle it yet. I assume it belongs to the target."

"Right you are," Arthur murmurs, stooping down to pick up the pen. He turns it over in his hands and weighs it in his palms. He knows this particular utensil. With a satisfied simper, he gives the pen a single _clck_. "And I suppose he'll be wanting this back."

 _ **{-}**_

"Hello, Kiku."

At the sight of his crush, Kiku feels a strong urge to turn tail and bolt. Although he is well aware that his crippling lack of physical strength and endurance wouldn't allow him to get far, he feels as if he could run to any place so long as it wasn't here, in front of Arthur. Who is looking at him— oh, god, he can't handle this— _No, no_ , he tells himself. _Iie. Remember the horoscope. Think of powering up. You are about to undergo a Super Saiyan of confidence and tell Arthur your feelings. You did not miss school all day to lose heart now. Ganbatte!_

...

Unfortunately, Kiku's never been one to indulge in pep talks, and his pitiful attempt at easing his nerves fails. With his mind occupied by overcoming his paralyzing social awkwardness, he doesn't register the coolness in Arthur's greeting, and nor does he notice the hungry look in Arthur's eyes. No, Kiku doesn't notice these things at first. Perhaps if he had, he would have been able to save himself.

"Hello, Kirkland-san. Or Konnichiwa, I should say." He inclines his head in a slight bow and once again thanks his lucky stars that he doesn't blush. Next, seeing as people don't normally converse while several feet away from each other, Kiku expects Arthur to come closer. (Then again, people don't normally come out to the woods behind a high school to converse either, but seeing as the large spruce Arthur currently leans against is rumored to be a prime make out spot, Kiku is hopeful).

But for a reason unknown to Kiku, Arthur comes no closer. Adding to the oddity of the scene, Arthur seems to find Kiku's greeting humorous; he smirks. "There is no need for that anymore."

"No need for what anymore?"

"For all of— this." Arthur waves his hand towards Kiku in a vague gesture. "Drop the act. I know what you want."

Arthur knows what he wants? The implications of that alone are tantalizing. This is the moment that has been in Kiku's dreams ever since he first saw Arthur. _Play it cool_ , he tells himself. _You practiced this._ He opens his mouth to reply in his characteristically smooth, concise manner... "Oh— Kirkland-san, I, I mean, Arthur, I—" ... and out comes a string on incoherent, half-formed fragments, the complete opposite of the eloquence he spoke with in his fantasies. After fumbling with his words for a few seconds, he settles on a flimsy: "You, you do?" as his heart flutters in his chest.

"I do." Arthur pushes himself off of the tree and steps closer to Kiku.

This is happening. _This is happening_. The moment he's seen so many of his favorite anime characters live out. Kiku can't help it; he smiles. But as Arthur continues, the expression fades.

"You thought you had us all fooled. You could have succeeded, you really could have, but then I came along. You never prepared for that, now did you?"

 _That doesn't sound.._. A crease appears between Kiku's eyebrows. "Kirkland-san, I don't—" he begins, nonplussed, but Arthur interrupts.

"Don't what? Don't know what I'm talking about?" A chuckle filled with caustic mirth rings through the air. "I suppose you don't, not yet." Arthur cuts himself off mid-laugh and levels his gaze at Kiku. "Not yet."

Arthur's too-wide grin and enigmatic mannerisms no longer go unnoticed by the Japanese teen, and neither does the way Arthur speaks: each sentiment slides from his lips in a low, cunning tone as if he had been waiting to say them for a while. Something suddenly seems very wrong. _I think I need to leave here._ His chest aches when he looks at Arthur, and his pulse quickens when their eyes meet, yet the action feels… precarious. As if something is about to happen, and Arthur knows it. Something that won't bode well for Kiku.

"What do you mean," Kiku tries again, taking a small step backward. He freezes as Arthur shoots him a sharp look. The vehemence in the glare is terrifying, and a cool sweat breaks across his brow. _What is going on?_

"Oh, leaving so soon? Think you'll go off to manipulate some more innocent people? I know exactly what you are, Kiku, and no one, no one, should ever be forced to be around a monster such as you." Arthur pauses, as if considering his next words, but there is no real hesitancy. After all, this is the moment he's dreamed of ever since he first saw Kiku. "Oh, granted, I was, and I hated every second of every minute when I had to act daft around you, but that time is up."

"I-I don't..." Hated every second? Monster? Kiku feels his heart crack. "I'm sorry?"

"Yes. You should be." In one skilled, deft motion, Arthur slips his gun from his holster, cocks the weapon, and aims it at Kiku. Before he fires, he can't help but sneer one last, gloating vibe. "You had a good run, _kyuuketsuki_ , but it's time to say _sayonara_."

"Kirkland-san, please —"

 _Bang_.

The shot rings out through the frosty evening, and it strikes Kiku in his side. Before the echo has finished reverberating throughout the trees, he has collapsed to the snow in a tangled of limbs.

"Shoot?" Arthur finishes, chuckling at Kiku's stunned expression. "I just did."

The shock on Kiku's expression morphs into an ugly grimace. For the second time today, emotion rises unbidden to his features. The pain radiating from his side, it burns despite the ice stinging his cheeks, and although it hurts like nothing he's felt before, he can't move, can't curl up on his side, can't— do— anything. _I've been shot_ , he thinks hazily. "I've been— I've been shot—Somebody, _kudasai_ , help me, help me—" His breathing comes faster now in desperate pants. With every heartbeat, Kiku can feel his blood pumping out of his body and onto the ground, and somehow, that notion is far more terrifying than the concept of a bullet in his side; he can feel his life draining out of him. He can't reach his phone. He can't get up. He can only let his head fall back the snow and listen to Arthur's footsteps as they come closer, and soon his vision blurs with tears, until he feels weaker, and weaker, and…

"Hanging on to the act until the end. You're dedicated, I'll give you that." Arthur's gaze never leaves the body until it falls limp. "But you never had me fooled." Then, a pair of handcuffs at ready, he strides over to Kiku, still unaware of the peril of Kiku's very-human life.

The first thing that should have tipped Arthur off to Kiku's morality is the slush surrounding his form, melted snow from the heat of his body. The second should have been the rapid rise and fall of the teen's chest. The third, final factor almost — almost — goes unnoticed by Arthur, but the agent does catch sight of the snow beneath Kiku's body. Red, an unabashed, bright, and unmistakably human red.

It can't be.

But it is, and for a moment, all he can do is watch, his face now a ghostly white and bile rising to his throat. Like a grotesque snow cone, the blood seeps further into the ground, staining the snow a deep crimson. A single, devastating thought enters his mind: _I have made a mistake._

The thought breaks him from his stupor. "No," he chokes, and Kiku, somehow slipping into consciousness, flinches at the sound of his voice. "No." His voice is hoarse to his ears, yet muffled, as if it is coming from somewhere far away. He staggers back from Kiku's form, and again he gasps: "No—" but cuts himself off before he can continue.

"This is unacceptable," he says to no one in particular, probably himself. He doesn't know if he's referring to his mistake or the valuable seconds he's wasted on panic— panic. No. He doesn't panic. That is not Arthur Kirkland. There are still lives at stake here besides the teen bleeding out behind him. The real issue is the demon that deserves damnation, that is still at large, but who—

Then, from the ground, he hears a small, broken voice whisper: "Alfred was right."

 _Alfred?_

Always with Kiku when Arthur was there. Until today, of course. The smell of bergamot and spices— it seemed faint coming from Kiku because it wasn't coming from Kiku.

Although the Japanese teen is right in front of him, there is none of his signature scent when he smells the air. Only the sharp, bitter scent of ice and the coppery tang of blood reaches Arthur's nose.

The pheromones were the work of Alfred, not Kiku, he realizes, and with that, a new image takes place in the agent's mind. Alfred, with his ghost-like skin. Alfred with bags under his eyes. Alfred who somehow managed to slip under the radar like someone who's had practice doing so for years.

The scenes come faster now, almost faster than he can process.

Alfred, eyes wide at the sight of Arthur after he had scared off Liên and Carlos. Looking up at Arthur as if he were his savior, not another fool beguiled by his mask. Arthur had looked right into those eyes, but he hadn't seen them; his eyes, yes, they were wide, but his pupils. They were larger than before, nearly engulfing the whites of his eyes. How had Arthur not noticed that before? The dilated pupils because his senses were heightened by the scent of blood. Carlos' blood. Signs of a hungry vampire. How many times had he identified that details before only to miss them when they were right in front of him?

And even before that, there was more. Alfred, who seemed to flinch before Liên had slapped him, before Liên had even raised her hand. As if he knew what was coming before she did. Uncanny reflexes. Alfred, who wasn't resigned to the events because he was numb. He was tired of them, for Alfred had seen them not just a few times, but hundreds, and right afterward—

 _"Your hands are freezing," Arthur said, eyebrows wrinkled in concern. "Are you not cold?"_

 _"No," Alfred replied, yanking his hand from Arthur's. He backed away towards his backpack, fumbling over excuses, until, at last, he arrived at one that was plausible:_

 _"I don't really get cold."_

"I suppose you don't," Arthur snarls, back in the present. He slips the pen from his pocket and turns the utensil over in his hands. He's searching for a clue that proves him wrong, proves this nightmare wrong, but he doesn't find it. For, as he looks at the pen, he catches a detail that he hadn't, but should have, seen before, a small, silver engraving written in an archaic script: Alfred F. Jones.

 _ **{-}**_

At last, Ludwig watches Arthur make his way through the trees, a limp corpse cradled in his arms. _Success again_ , the German thinks, unsurprised. As Arthur strides closer, however, something doesn't seem right: Kiku's arms lay crossed across his chest, uncuffed; his chest rises and falls in an erratic beat; and scabbed blood has dried the boy's shirt to his skin. Even more disturbingly so are Arthur's hands. They are caked with blood. Red blood in juxtaposition to the sluggish, pre-clotted blood from a wounded vampire.

Ludwig is already out of the van by the time Arthur arrives at the foot of the hill, and he barely asks, "What happened," before Arthur bites off a curt answer.

"Wrong target." His voice is precariously sharp, and he cares not for pleasantries at the moment. If Ludwig wants to be addressed as sir, he can wait.

Ludwig seems to agree, for he stalks ahead of Arthur to throw open the back doors of the van. In one swift, deft motion, he pulls out a stretcher, accepts Kiku's body from Arthur, and positions the teen on his back. "How did this happen." The sentiment is halfway between a command and a question.

"Wrong target," Arthur repeats, and his jaw clenches as if the words cause him physical pain. "I shot him in his left lower torso."

Ludwig's jaw tightens. "We need to get him to a hospital." The German takes a quick survey of the van's contents. Several sets of silver handcuffs, another sun-slinger, and two assault rifles used for sedatives. The entire inside is lined with a thick alloy of rose-washed steel and silver, and an even thicker barrier separates the back compartment from the driver and passenger seats. Not one IV, not one piece of gauze, and, ironically, not a trace of any spare blood. "We aren't equipped to deal with humans in here."

"The hospital is not equipped to deal with the situation either. And neither is POE."

Before Arthur can continue, Ludwig has turned from the van and fixed him with a dark glare. "What are you saying, Arthur." Answer carefully, the glare warns him.

"We have cover to keep." Arthur meets Ludwig's glare with a stony gaze of his own. "He'll talk. He'll." He stops. Ludwig's eyes have begun to freeze over with an icy wrath.

"He'll talk. _He'll talk_?" His words start low, almost too quiet to hear. Then, before Arthur can open his mouth, they have crescendoed into a furious roar. "There is a human teenager in there!" Ludwig jabs his finger towards the van. "That you shot. You took an oath to protect humanity, Arthur, and that — that! — is not protecting. That, _Arthur_ , is harming. We are taking him to a hospital. _Agreed?_ "

"...Agreed."

They secure Kiku to the stretcher within the next few minutes. The one after is spent climbing into their respective seats and starting the car. Between the two agents, shocked and more than a little resentful at their mistake, the tension in the air is palpable. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_ the silence seems to berate the two. Arthur's silent anger doesn't help either. Finally, Ludwig breaks it first.

"Who is it."

When Arthur doesn't answer, Ludwig turns to focus on him. The Brit is shaking— with rage, Ludwig realizes, as if the very question has added more fuel to Arthur's anger. He glances down. Arthur's fingers are wrapped tightly around his gun. They turn white as his gaze darkens.

"Kirkland. Who is it?"

Arthur's reply is almost indecipherable, the words little more than a vitriolic snarl: "I know who."

* * *

 _ **A/N**_ **: REEEEEEEE.**


	8. Act Three, Scene One

**_WARNING_** **: BLATANT PARODY OF TWILIGHT AHEAD. MOSTLY COMEDY. It is meant to be annoyingly melodramatic, don't worry. :)**

 **Act Three, Scene One: The Violent(-er) End**

* * *

 ** _{-}_**

His mind still swirled dizzily, full of images he didn't want to understand, and some he fought to repress. Nothing seemed clear at first, but as the vampire in front of him collapsed to the snow, a few certainties became evident. About three things Arthur was absolutely positive. First, Alfred was a vampire. Second, there was part of him — and he didn't know how potent that part might be — that defied the idea of a standard vampire. And third, he was unconditionally and irrevocably entwined with the destiny of POE.

 ** _{-}_**

 **Alcester Forest, Stratford upon Avon**

He bides his time among spruce, pine, and birch. In one hand, he clutches Kiku's cell phone; with the other, he secures a gun inside its holster. Albeit the screen is cracked and bloody, the phone has served its purpose: he hears branches snap underfoot behind him. The sounds of the forest — which had been maddeningly loud beforehand — fall away in a sweeping hush as if the newcomer's arrival demands the creatures' silence.

 _This is where it ends._

From his peripheral vision, Arthur can see the blurred silhouette of a vampire creep without noise into the clearing behind him. As he stares into the thicket, his gaze set with a baleful resolve, Arthur exhales softly. He then opens his mouth to confront his unmasked target. "You're impossibly fast—"

"Uh, Kiku, I got your text?" Alfred tromps into the clearing, unaware that he has butted in on the beginning of a theatrical spiel. He looks down at his phone. The text from Kiku is still displayed on his screen, yet there is no Kiku to be seen, heard, or smelled. Puzzled, Alfred hollers again: "KIKU—" He cuts himself off as he catches sight of Arthur. "Oh, hi, Arthur. Have you seen Kiku?" Alfred slips his phone into his pocket and gives Arthur a tactless wave. The Brit doesn't turn around. "Yo, Arthur? You seen Kiku?"

More than a little miffed at being interrupted before he has the chance to begin his melodramatic monologue, Arthur clears his throat. "Kiku isn't here. Not anymore."

"Wow, okay, that was cryptic. Don't mind me asking a normal question that in no way deserves a weird response." Alfred rolls his eyes. "Alright, well, good to know. Why did he send me that if he wasn't gonna be here? Rude." He shakes his head and clicks his tongue in disapproval. " _Tsk_. What a guy. Anyways, why are you out here? Did he tell you to come here too? Sorta odd, to be honest, 'cause he told me he hung out with you today. Did he send you a text too?"

Arthur remains unfazed by Alfred's prattle. Once he had warmed up to Arthur, the teen was ridiculously verbose and full to the brim with cynical sarcasm. If it didn't come from the mouth of a vampire, Arthur might have appreciated the wit. Now he sees Alfred for what he is: an imposter. Skilled, cunning, and effective, but nonetheless an imposter, and one mustn't forget to add murderer to the list. Arthur hungers for the moment in which he will shatter Alfred's well-constructed mask. He plans to savor the confrontation.

"No, he didn't," Arthur speaks after a long moment. "He did not send me a text." Even with Alfred behind him, he remains facing the treeline, staring solemnly into the brush beyond. He pauses again, and once he feels as if he has regained his desired ambiance (arcane with a twist of mystery), he continues. "You're impossibly fast. And strong—"

"Have you seen him though?" Alfred inquires, bouncing from foot to foot with impatience. "Recently, that is. It's just that, it's cold out here, and he was absent today. Think he might be sick. I don't want him out here, y'know?"

Arthur frowns; he hadn't expected this encounter to be so... halting. Ah, well, he can improv. "Yes. It's cold, isn't it? It is winter, after all." He turns around with an exaggerated grace and rakes his eyes over Alfred's form. Alfred's coatless, gloveless, and scarfless form. Then, once he is certain Alfred is watching his gaze, Arthur takes in the icy terrain again: branches entombed in crystals of ice, plants asphyxiating under several feet of snow, and his own breath visible in the air. In juxtaposition, he notes that as Alfred exhales, no condensation appears in front of his nose. "Two degrees Celsius."

Alfred blinks.

 _Oh, for heaven's sake._ "Thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit."

"Oh! Er... yeah, that's the temperature. That's uh, that's accurate." Alfred takes a peek at his phone. "Oop, it moved down a degree. Thirty-four. Jeez. That is cold."

"But you don't get cold; do you, Alfred?" Arthur inquires, the question delicate despite its implication.

"Not really. I told you that, remember?"

"Oh, I remember a lot of things." _At least, I remember them for how they were now. Beguiled by a vampire. That won't happen again; I won't fall for your innocuous façade._ Arthur levels his gaze into the vampire's eyes— cerulean, but he is aware of the crimson lies beneath. _It's time to let him know what I know._ "You, Alfred Jones, are something else."

Fatally misinterpreting Arthur's words, Alfred's face brightens into a jovial grin. "Thanks, man! Right back atcha. Hey, I was thinking—"

"Be quiet," Arthur snaps. This insufferable creature is ruining his moment. He at least deserves this after all he's been through in this horrid town. "You, Alfred Jones, are something else." When Alfred doesn't interrupt again, Arthur allows a gloating leer to unfurl across his face. He starts to stroll around the clearing, circling the vampire with a leisurely, almost careless gait. "You are impossibly quick and strong for someone of your stature. Your skin is pale white and ice-cold—"

Alfred holds up a hand. "Whoop. Lemme stop you right there. I have no idea what you're talking about, but I know one thing."

Arthur slips his hand into his holster and curls his fingers around the handle of the gun. His every muscle tenses. _Is this it?_ He stalks to the mouth of the clearing, bent in a low crouch as he awaits Alfred's next move.

"Okay, so, I'm no writer, but pale and white is kinda redundant, right? Also, can you stop moving? You're kinda hard to follow." As if to illustrate Arthur's path, Alfred waves his hands around. "Sort of all over the place, y'know what I mean? Just, uh, pick a sport and stick to it, yeah?"

"...Can I speak? Please." At Alfred's apology, Arthur picks up where he left off. He continues to circle the vampire; he won't let Alfred spoil his flair for dramatics. "You, Alfred Jones, are something else. You are impossibly quick and strong for someone of your stature. Your skin is pale white and ice cold. Your eyes change in color, and sometimes you speak like… you are from a different time. You never eat or drink anything. You avoid going outside, so tell me…" He tilts his head and studies the vampire through narrowed eyes. "How old are you, Alfred?"

"Fifteen? I'm also a Cancer, by the way. Kiku got me into horoscopes, and they're pretty cool."

"How long have you been fifteen?"

"Uh… five months? Six? Not sure." Alfred begins to count on his fingers, raising his gaze to the sky and pursing his lips. "Okay, so. July, August, September, October, November, December, January— seven months, if I'm counting right." He holds up seven fingers and wiggles them in a helpful, unnecessary visual.

How dare he act so casual. Arthur's grits his teeth as his gaze darkens into an acidic glare. "No. _No._ No, no, no. That is incorrect."

"No? It's not? Unless you have a different idea of years than I do? Dog years…?"

"No. Not dog years... your secret, Alfred." Arthur raises his chin in a pompous sneer, convinced that this is it, the moment he's been waiting for. The reveal should strike some rightful fear into the vampire and ensure a proper reaction. "I know exactly what you are." _Let's see him try to act so flippant in the face of adversity, the likes of which he's never dealt with before._

"Oh. Oh. Ohhh." Recognition dawns on Alfred's face, and he stumbles back, stunned. That's what this is about. He should have known. As the realization fades, panic sets in. _This is why we're out here alone, why Arthur is saying strange things. And it explains the tension from before! Oh, god, the tension from before. He must have misinterpreted it. This is bad. This is bad. How do I get out of this?_ Arthur stands to the side, anticipating a response— a response that isn't going to be pretty. Alfred closes his eyes and braces himself.

"Listen, Arthur. I'm flattered. I-I really am, don't get me wrong. But I don't even know if I'm into dudes, and before you go any further you should know that Kiku, uh, well, Kiku is gay for you."

"He's, I— what?"

"Ohhh, shit. Was that, was that not what you were gonna say?" Alfred looks appalled. "Shiiit." He turns around and walks a few steps away, running a hand through his hair. He then looks back at Arthur, his eyes wide, and demands, "He didn't tell you? Anything?" He doesn't wait for a response, and he wouldn't have received one anyway; Arthur is momentarily stunned, a new low for the rigorously trained agent.

"Why didn't he tell you? He said he was gonna tell you today. I guess the cat's out of the bag, fuck. He's gonna be so pissed." He looks at Arthur again, and upon catching sight of his dumbfounded expression, sighs. "I guess I gotta say it. Oh, man. Oh man," he repeats, lacing his fingers together before (unnecessarily) inhaling a long breath. "Uh, yeah, he was gonna tell you that he liked you today when you guys hung out. Oof, okay, this is embarrassing. I am so sorry, Arthur, my dude, I had no idea. That's why I thought he was here, see, he texted me like thirty minutes ago. Thought I was going to get some tea about you, but I guess not. This is so bad on so many levels. Shit…" Alfred winces and shakes his head. "This is not good— uh, Arthur? Are you okay?" He stares at the Brit, eyebrows scrunched in concern. _He looks like he's about to have an aneurysm._

Indeed, Arthur looks pain-stricken. As Alfred rambled on, Arthur's training overcame his shock. The Brit is now livid— his expression has turned venomous, and his complexion reddens by the second. He inhales a long, deep breath and pauses to knead his temple. This is so difficult. So unfair. He takes another moment to compose himself before straightening. "Let. Me. Speak," he tells Alfred through clenched teeth. "Got. It?"

"You got it." Alfred shoots him a pair of finger guns, unbothered by Arthur's truculence. He's a prickly guy, Alfred's learned in the past two weeks, and that's a part of who he is. "You do you, boo."

It's the finger guns that do it. "I've had enough of this!" Arthur strides across the clearing and jabs Alfred in the chest. "You! You are a vampire! That's what you are. I figured it out! Since you have _so_ much to say today, what do you say to that, hmm?!"

Alfred freezes. _Mmm… fuck_ , he finds himself thinking. _Is this really happening? This can't be happening._ Arthur stands triumphantly in front of him, chest heaving, waiting for an answer. Worried that Arthur really will have an aneurysm if he didn't speak, Alfred says the first thing on his mind. "Uh. No, I'm not?"

"Yes. You are," Arthur replies in a strangled tone. "I know you are."

 _Wow. Okay. This is happening. Okay. Okay, stay chill. Be chill. Okay. Okay. Gotta stay calm. He's just a human. I can get out of this. Okay. Act casual._ "Nah. I don't know what you're talking about." _Perfect. He'll buy that._

"Yes, you do."

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck he's not buying it! Keep denying it, maybe that will work._ "No, not really. I do not, at all," Alfred, his voice nonchalant as he shrugs casually.

"Yes, you do," Arthur spits. And then, just like he had with Liên, his temper overtakes all rationality, and he explodes. "You are a vampire! A kyuuketsuki! A vampir. Xīxuèguǐ, wampir, vampyyri! Whatever you decide to call it, I've heard it all, and I've dealt with them all. No matter the word, you are a filthy, bloodsucking, unnatural being who has no place here. You may think you would have gotten away with those despicable acts of murder, but not today. Not ever!"

"Uh, have you been watching Twilight lately? Because—"

Then Arthur pulls out a gun, and what Alfred planned to say dies in his throat. For a second, the only thing he can think is, _oh, shit, my horoscope was right._

"Okay, that is a gun. That you are holding. I don't think you should have that." Logically, he shouldn't be afraid of a gun, but holy shit, that is a _gun._ "You wanna, uh, you wanna put that down? Arthur?"

"No. I do not." Satisfaction floods his body as Arthur watches Alfred's carefree expression morph into one far more appropriate for the situation: fear. "Nothing to say to this, hm? No matter. You'll never have to worry about speaking again." His voice quivers with a ravenous anticipation, and Arthur nearly shivers as a bullet slides into the chamber with a satisfying _shnk_. "I have waited too long for this— I'm not waiting any longer. You're going to get what you deserve." He chuckles to himself, the sound full of callous mirth. "You may have had everyone else fooled, but not anymore. Your time is up, Alfred." With that, he deftly removes the safety, cocks the gun, and fires.

The bullet slices through the air with a deafening crack and buries itself an inch above Alfred's dead heart. For the first time in his wretched existence, the vampire feels pain, and as he crashes to the ground, face twisted in rage, he curses Arthur's impeccable skills as a vampire hunter—

At least, that's what Arthur thought would happen; the actual result is anticlimactic. The bullet does indeed hit his mark, but Alfred doesn't snarl, curse, or scream. For a few seconds, the only sound throughout the woods of Stratford upon Avon is the muffled reverberation from the gunshot, then, and indignant cry: "You SHOT me? What the hell?!"

 _This isn't how I imagined this happening._ For the second time today, Arthur is momentarily stunned. He knows he has the right target; the bullet had entered Alfred's flesh with a sickening thump, and the wound doesn't bleed red blood. Yet Alfred doesn't seem to be affected otherwise. _Perhaps that was a dud?_ It must have been. Arthur gives his fantasy a second chance; with a determined set to his mouth, he quickly aims his gun and shoots Alfred again.

"Ow— would you STOP doing that!?" To Arthur's befuddlement, Alfred doesn't look so much in pain as he does look affronted. He looks down at the rapidly growing patch of blood on his shirt, then at the second hole in his arm, then back at Arthur. "That fucking hurts, you asshole. What the actual fuck? You don't go around shooting people— what is _wrong_ with you?"

"Why isn't this working," Arthur snarls. He raises the weapon to shoot a third time, but Alfred dodges the bullet.

"What did I just say?! I told you to stop doing that." Before Arthur can pull the trigger again, Alfred darts forward and snatches the weapon from his hands. He then staggers across the clearing and deposits the gun under a tree, several feet away from Arthur. "It's obviously not working, whatever you were trying to do, so stop. Jesus Christ. You don't just shoot people— even if they're vampires! The hell did I do to you? Dickweed."

Did this vampire call him a dickweed. And why isn't he falling unconscious. Or attacking? Now without his sun-slinger, Arthur has no idea how to react. The sun-slingers always work. Always. He can only watch in horror as Alfred continues to stumble around the clearing, cursing Arthur all the while.

"And what kind of gun is that anyway? What the fuck kinda gun can do that shit? Where'd you get that? _How_ did you even get that? Holy fucking SHIT, what sort of bullets are those?!" Despite the fact that he now has two bullets lodged in his form, Alfred is struck by curiosity. Guns weren't supposed to pierce his flesh, not from several feet away, at least. "This is wrong on so many levels— why are you just standing there?" Alfred shoots a fierce glare at Arthur.

The look on the vampire's face is terrifying, Arthur finds himself thinking. Alfred's eyes are narrowed and brimming with hostility, and a fleeting thought crosses the Brit's mind: he does not want to experience such a look from Alfred again. For the first time, Arthur's predicament begins to register with him. He is alone, in the woods, with an angry vampire who is seemingly resistant to mankind's one surefire weapon against them. He thinks of one word to sum up the entire situation, but Alfred beats him to it.

"FUCK."

The strained sentiment snaps Arthur from his shock. Alfred is no longer on his feet, cursing Arthur's existence. He is crouched in the snow, his teeth clenched, doubled over in pain. A delayed reaction? Is something finally going right? With Alfred lying in the snow, presumably distracted, Arthur sees his chance, and he takes it; he dashes across the clearing, slides to a stop at the base of a large pine, and grabs his gun. In a matter of seconds, the weapon is cocked and aimed at Alfred— who seems to be aware of Arthur's mad dash.

"Fuck," Alfred whimpers instead. A searing, burning sensation spreads throughout the inside of his body, and it feels as if something thick and sluggish is trying to force itself through his deadened veins. The holes where the bullets entered itch, the skin cracking and flaking where congealed, black blood leaks out of his body. He cracks open an eye and immediately wishes he hadn't— the snow is speckled with shifting grey dots, and his view slowly shrinks until he sees less and less... and... less—

Everything goes black.

* * *

 _End of Part One:_ ** _The Doe_**

 ** _A/N:_** **_SERIOUS QUESTION._** **This story started off as a comedy/parody idea, but now it's been shifting between seriousness and more light hearted stuff. What do you guys think? Should I go comedy, or go dark, or keep as I have been doing with both? Please answer. I gotta know. :0**


	9. Act Four, Scene One

**Part Two:** _ **The Hunter**_

 **Act Four, Scene One: Proposition**

* * *

 **POE Headquarters, 09:22**

Alfred wakes to a headache. 'Ow' seems like an accurate enough description for the pain that threatens to split his skull open, but the ability to form coherent words is apparently beyond him at the moment. He ends up letting out a groan instead.

"Hnnng."

Through a languid stupor, he wonders, _why does it feel like I just died? Again._ Opening his eyes, too, is difficult. He's been underage for half a century, but if he had to guess, he's pretty sure this is what a hangover feels like.

Finally, he cracks one eye open. He manages an actual word — "fuck!"— as light floods his vision. Once he adjusts to the brightness, another issue prevents itself. _Where am I?_

Alfred pulls himself up into a sitting position as he glances around the room. It resembles less a room and more a cell the longer he looks. The space is small, just large enough to fit Alfred on a cot with a few feet left over. He can reach out and touch the walls on either side of him. As for the walls, they seem to be crafted from some sort of unearthly, gleaming metal. Three of them are identical while the fourth has a window. Perhaps it is a door, but there's no handle. At least not on the inside.

 _This has got to be some sort of dream or, or…_ Maybe a thirst-induced hallucination, but that has never happened before. Still, the symptoms are remarkably similar to when he's gone far too long without a drink: headache, grogginess, and fatigue. Even the simple act of sitting up leaves Alfred exhausted.

He leans his back against the nearest wall for support. Strange. The metal feels as if it's leeching strength from him. His limbs are heavy, and he's… he's tired. So tired. The best thing to do would be to lay back down and… sleep…

Alfred jerks away from the wall. No. Now is not the time. He gives himself a rough shake. _Think, Alfred! Think! What happened to me? Why am I like this?_

The memories come back slowly, a trickle— then all at once: The forest— still, silent, waiting— How long have you been fifteen—A leer, gloating, victorious— Your time is up—

 _Bang._

Alfred jolts. He can still feel the phantom pain of the bullet, tearing through his skin, lodging itself where his heart used to be. He brings a shaking hand to his chest. His fingers find the hole in his shirt. The edges are frayed and stained with blackish blood. Deeper inside, something shifts within him, and _oh my god, that's a bullet._

 _I don't need to breathe, I don't need to breathe_ , he tries to remind himself, but the logic can't stop him from pulling in erratic, frantic breaths, his chest heaving, and the bullet _moves_ , and _holy shit, I can't do this, oh my god, oh my god._

"Okay, okay, okay," he chants as if the words can make this whole situation okay by sheer force of will. "Oh, man, okay. Okay. Don't think about it, don't think about it." He raises his gaze upwards. _What happened the last time I got shot?_ He remembers his attempt a few decades ago. It had not gone well, as he'd been left with a mess to clean up, but the bullet had disintegrated after a few days. That had been with a normal gun, however, and with a normal bullet.

He doesn't even know what kind of gun Arthur'd had. It was… _I'm pretty sure it was the same color as the walls._ Alfred swings his legs over the side of the cot and stands. Once the room stops spinning, he takes a step forward and reaches out to touch one of the silver walls. The sluggish feeling from before returns. When Alfred removes his hand, the wave of weariness disappears at once. "The heck?" He stumbles back to the center of his cell. "The actual heck?"

He looks around his cell again, this time searching for any sort of imperfection. Anything he can use to get out of here. But there's nothing. He's trapped, trapped with no hope of— a thought enters his mind.

 _I'm a vampire._

Granted, not the most original thought; no one's ever praised him for his creativity, but it is helpful nonetheless. Because he's a _vampire_. If that's how he got into this situation in the first place, why can't the same logic get him out of it? Alfred looks at his hand. He curls his fingers into a fist. "This'd better work."

And it does. Several minutes later, the wall with the window crashes into the hallway with a resonating clannng. Alfred winces. No one's ever praised him for stealth either.

After hopping over the jagged remains of the door's frame, Alfred pauses outside of the cell to look around, and… "Wow." He does an awkward half-spin as he takes in his surroundings. "What the…"

The hall is dimly lit and lined with rows upon rows of identical, metal doors. The air smells odd; it takes a minute for Alfred to identify why before he comes to an answer: it is still. There is no movement. As he exhales, he notices a small cloud of condensation forming in front of his nose. Somehow, Alfred is warmer than the hallway. _Must be freezing in here_ , he thinks, walking over to one of the doors. He reaches out to press his palm against the surface. It's the same metal. Noting that the door to this cell has a window as well, he stands on the tip of his toes to peer through it.

"What the—!" Alfred springs back. There's a dead person in there, a corpse _, holy—_ No, he realizes. Not a dead person. The dead have the decency to appear dead; the figure in there is another vampire.

Alfred creeps closer again. Inside lays what used to be a young man. His skin is olive-toned, and he seems to glow in the harsh lights of the cell. One hand is folded across his chest; the other is hanging off the side of the cot, knuckles skimming the floor. Even in his slumber, he demands Alfred's attention, and Alfred gives it to him. How can he not? The other expels a certain je ne sais quoi that is unyielding, that is tempting. Tempting for what, he doesn't know, but he finds himself compelled to be closer to the vampire, no, he _needs_ to be closer to the vampire. The door to the cell groans in protest as Alfred sinks his fingers into the metal, folding it inwards. One of the screws bolting the door to the walls snaps and drops to the ground. The sound reverberates throughout the hallway.

Alfred turns his head to look at the screw. He blinks. "What?" He glances down. His hands are sunk into the metal while his body is twisted to the side, feet braced, prepared to wrench the door from its hinges. _How…? I don't?_ He carefully tugs his hands out of the door, leaving two warped indents in their places. And where the screw had fallen from, he's crushed the metal inward and left behind a gap between the door and its adjacent wall. Alfred glances back at the vampire. He feels the same attraction toward the creature, stronger than before, but he backs away from the cell. Time to get going. He vows to steer clear of any and all cells, especially the ones with vampires.

This turns out to be harder than he thought, for as he traipses through the hall, a vampire lays behind almost every door. Each cell summons a wave of apprehensiveness mixed with relief— he isn't the only one of his kind after all. Yet, he is the only one awake amongst a sea of impossibly perfect creatures. He imagines them rising unbidden from their cots, imagines their eyes snapping open with fury, imagines them with snarls marring their beautiful faces as they lock on him and him alone.

Alfred begins to walk faster. "C'mon man," he whispers to himself. The sound of his own voice makes him jump. "Jesus. I really need to stop psyching myself out. I am _not_ in a horror movie." After a second, he grumbles, "Sounds like something someone in a horror movie would say."

After several more rows of cells, he reaches what seems to be an elevator. Alfred thanks whatever god is up there for this blip of good fortune as he boards it.

Once inside, his hand hovers over the buttons. _I should go to… First floor. Or is it ground floor? Please let that be the way out of here._ He punches the button and lets out a sigh of relief as the doors slide shut. He'd rather be anywhere else than in an endless hallway full of sleeping vampires.

 **POE Headquarters, 09:45**

"I was wrong, I was wrong, I was so, so, so, wrong." Alfred shoves through a door marked _Stairs_ and hurtles down a flight to his left. "Oh, man, I was so wrong." He'd give anything to be back inside the hallway full of slumbering vampires instead of where he is now: sprinting through hallways bleached with red-tinted lights. A siren wails overhead. Several people armed with cruel-looking guns lurk around every corner.

The entire building, if that is the correct word for this place, seems to be in a panic. Squads of men rush down corridor after corridor, looking for something called a "fang." Alfred assumes that means him. He can't exactly stop and ask.

Two women run his way shouting orders in their earpieces. "Down the east stairwell—" he catches as he flattens himself against the wall. The two breeze past him without slowing their pace.

East stairwell? Alfred turns to the sign on his right, stationed underneath one of the flashing lights. East, it reads. "Oh shi—" A door slams open above him. Alfred's head snaps up. "Through this way!" he hears. Several pairs of boots thunder down the stairs accompanied by harsh orders.

Alfred bursts through a door marked _Exit_ and into another hallway. The situation isn't much better. Various people march up and down the hallway. All of them are armed. Blindly, he turns to his left, yanks open the first door he sees, and slams it behind him.

And then all is quiet. Blissfully quiet.

"Thank god." He slides against the door to his knees. He wants to sob with relief. Finally, finally, finally, there's no one around, and he can gather his thoughts without worrying about being attacked by either his current or ex species. Finally.

"Was zur Hölle!?"

Alfred shrieks.

"Why is there a kid in here!?"

Across the room is one of the most terrifying people Alfred has ever seen in his life. Even from several feet away, the man seems to tower over the young vampire. His hair is stark white and wild, sticking up in every which direction. His skin, a tone one shade past white, almost blends into his hair. Most shocking of all are his eccentrically-colored eyes: they are pure red.

 _Oh my god, it's a fucking demon, I'm in hell, I've died, and I'm in hell._ The man demands something in a harsh German accent. Before he can stop himself, a plea bubbles past Alfred's lips. "Please don't take my soul!" With a gasp, he clamps his hands over his mouth before he says something else of unimaginable stupidity.

"What."

The demon does not invoke the wrath of the nine circles of hell. Instead, he looks taken aback. _That is not a demon_ , Alfred realizes. _Fuck._ He brings down his hands. _Why am I like this._ "Ah, uhm, nothing, nevermind."

The man blinks. His expression morphs into one of concern. "Cadets aren't supposed to be in this part of the building. How did you get here? Are you lost? Did you need something?" He gestures at the ceiling with his gun. "In case you haven't noticed, we're in a bit of a crisis."

"I, I noticed." The sirens are still sounding, given off low, keening wails that set his teeth on edge. Alfred's eyes dart to the gun in the man's hand. He decides that he should probably, definitely not be here at all. "You know what, I was, I was just leaving, actually, so if you'll—"

"Are you crazy?" the man interrupts. "Do you not know what the sirens mean!? There's a vampire on the loose in the upper holding cells."

"Oh, oh, really?" Alfred averts his gaze. "I did not, uh, know that. Uhm. Yes. Wow."

"But worry not!" The man misinterprets Alfred's lackluster reaction to be the result of fear. He puffs out his chest and thumps it with his fist. "You're with the commander. Best of the best. Awesomest of the awesome."

Alfred makes a pained sound. Commander? Of what? Of fucking what? He opens his mouth to demand an answer, but he is cut off once again.

"Gott— what happened?"

Oh no. The commander seems to have caught sight of the bullet holes in Alfred's shirt. He has no time to sputter out an alibi before the man is kneeling by his side and asking more questions than Alfred can process.

"You have been shot? Not with the sun guns, I hope? How are you—" He freezes as his hand ghosts over Alfred's chest.

Alfred flinches. He knows the man is realizing he has no pulse. Realizing there is no blood. Realizing the air around his skin is glacial. Slowly, Alfred raises his gaze. The commander's eyes are there to meet his own, and for a split second, Alfred can see his own expression reflected in crimson: terrified.

—and then the keening sound is inside his head, and it hurts, and something in between his eyes is burning, and—

 **POE Headquarters, 10:01**

Ludwig had been in the armory when the alert sounded. One of the fangs on the upper levels had broken out of its cell for the first time since… for the first time ever. From what he'd been able to deduce, the fang had decimated the cell door and taken the elevator on a joyride to the main floor. Ludwig was sure a full report would be released as soon as the emergency was over. Right now, his job was to mitigate the danger and maintain calm among his fellow agents.

Oddly enough, as soon as he'd arrived at his post, the threat had been subdued. It had to have been a mistake in the framework of the cell, Ludwig figured. He expected that someone would be losing his job within the hour. Other than that, the whole snafu of a vampire breaking loose in an organization full of vampire hunters should have ended there. The fang would be put back under, moved to a new cell, and they could all go on with their days. Threats were a given on this job; everyone knew this. But as he and his agents waited for information, there was none. Finally, Ludwig's suspicions reached a peak as he received furtive orders to head down to the lowest level of headquarters with instructions to keep his purpose on the hush-hush. Simple instructions to follow. Ludwig didn't know what he was doing either.

With these events fresh in his mind, Ludwig stalks towards the door of his destination. _If my place is here_ _instead of with my men upstairs, this had better be important._ He pauses at the frame to see his older brother, Gilbert, in a heated conversation with Arthur. It takes several seconds for the two of them to notice his arrival, after which the argument halts. Arthur gives him a terse nod.

Ludwig returns the greeting with one of his own. "What is going on."

Arthur and Gilbert share a look.

Ludwig gives both of them a _look_.

Gilbert, being the actual leader, decides to take the lead. "Well, mein Bruder," he claps a hand on Ludwig's shoulder, "here is the thing: we don't know." At Ludwig's silence, he inhales through gritted teeth and shakes his head. "Yeah, ich auch. Me too. Seems like the vamp you and Kirkland brought in is causing some trouble. Trouble it has no business to be causing." He gestures to a pane of glass on the opposite side of the room.

Ludwig peers through glass to see…? His brows draw together. "That is the one that broke out?" At Gilbert's confirmation, he frowns. "That—"

"—should be impossible," Arthur grimaces from across the room. "We know. Nothing has been consistent. It's all been incompatible."

"Then what we are doing here."

The query is more of a demand, and it causes an ugly scowl to overtake Arthur's features. "Gilbert— oh, sorry. My apologies. The _commander_ had a brilliant idea. We are going to ask it ourselves." He bites back a satisfied smile as Ludwig's expression twists in disapproval.

Ludwig pivots to face Gilbert. "Was ist die Bedeutung davon?" he demands harshly.

"Bitte, Bruder, calm down." Gilbert jerks away from Ludwig. He turns his back on his brother and marches away. Ludwig pursues him across the room, his strides short and furious. Gilbert glances back at Ludwig's stormy frown and throws his hands into the air in exasperation. "Lehre mich nicht. Das habe ich als _Commander_ entschieden."

"Nein, nein, nein." A vein pulses in Ludwig's forehead. "Zu gefährlich!"

Arthur watches the exchange with pique. _I should not have taken French back in secondary school_ , he concludes, tapping his foot impatiently. At least Ludwig is on his side: incredulous with the idea of conversing with a vampire. The idea of assuming such a creature would indulge in cooperation with beings it considers to be its prey is preposterous, and yet here is the commander of POE, the commander of an organization dedicated to subduing said creatures, throwing the idea out there like there's no other solution.

 _I have a solution. Pump the damn Fang with so much sedative the entire cell will smell like a cheap Italian restaurant._ Arthur taps his foot faster. _But Gilbert? No, no, not Gilbert. The commander has a far better solution. Talk to the hellbringer who almost cost me my job, my credibility, and, oh, why not, my sanity. Brilliant._

The two Germans' discourse grows in volume as Arthur stews in his vexation. No one notices a certain vampire regaining consciousness. No one notices the movement behind the glass, until: "HEY!"

The three agents freeze.

"I thought you shot it," Arthur hisses from the side of his mouth, eyes locked on the vampire.

"I did!" Gilbert snaps. "What? You think the awesome me could miss a shot like that? That I, the commander, could—"

"Yes, yes, we know, we know. Let's get on with it then." Arthur rolls up his sleeves. "If we are going to do this, I suppose I will be going in." He pauses as Gilbert lets out a snicker. "What? What is it?"

"You?" Gilbert snorts. "Ha! Ten seconds in there and you would take being the bad cop too far. We want the fang giving answers, not unconscious again."

"Then who," Arthur demands, "do you expect to go in and interrogate it?"

Ludwig, who had been observing the fang, turns back to find two pairs of eyes on him. "Yes?"

"Luddy." Gilbert slings his arm around his brother's shoulders. "You're going in. Satisfied, little brother? Someone should be, since Arthur here is not."

" _Excuse_ me."

Ludwig responds with a curt dip of his chin. The decision makes the most sense; Arthur is too volatile, Gilbert is too valuable. Ludwig Beilschmidt is not a perfect man in many ways, but as an agent, his skill remains undisputed. He knows he has interrogation tactics that would intimidate any normal human. Perhaps they may fall short in the face of a fang, but Gilbert's intent is clear as he tosses Ludwig a silver earpiece.

"Use that German charm to see if you can scare it a bit, _ja_?"

Another nod from Ludwig. He fits the piece of tech over his ear as he strides over to the door leading to the other room. Leading to the vampire. As he shuts it behind him, he hears Gilbert tap into his commlink.

"You know what to do. We will be in touch."

 **POE Headquarters, 10:06**

Ludwig enters the interrogation room with an expression as hard and flat as a slab of slate. His boots, heavy and solid, stop short of crossing the threshold. Instead, he lingers there, in the doorway, a towering, draconian presence. His gaze sweeps throughout the room, and even as his eyes slide over the vampire, his expression remains unchanged.

A beat passes. Two. Three. Then, right as the stillness in the room mounts, Ludwig strides past the threshold. He draws his weapon with practiced movements, and he takes aim with the same care. His gaze finally rests on the vampire.

Who looks about ready to piss itself.

"Please don't— please don't shoot." The supernatural creature sounds terrified, and it looks the part as well: eyes wide, body tense, and leaning as far away from Ludwig as possible. "I've been shot, like, way too many times, I don't know where I am, and I haven't done anything, and I don't want to be here, and I don't know who you people are, and I, I." The vampire's voice breaks off into a pitiful whine.

 _I stand corrected_. Ludwig wrestles a look of consternation from his face. _Gott im Himmel, stick with the plan, Beilschmidt._ Sure, the fang looks like a frightened kid. Sure, Ludwig's instincts tell him to stow his weapon. But he has a job to do; he will not fall victim to the vampire's attempts at deception. Ludwig holds up a palm. "Enough." The vampire's babbling halts. "Cooperate now, and I will not shoot. Try something, and I will."

Through his earpiece, he hears Arthur scoff, "There's no way it will listen to that."

Once again proving both Arthur and Ludwig wrong, the vampire bobs its head. "Okay, okay, okay, that sounds great. Great. I can do that. Sounds like a swell plan."

It hasn't tried to slash his throat yet, so all is well. Better than well, all things considered. "We have questions." Ludwig cocks his gun and settles his finger on the trigger. "You will answer them."

"Absolutely. Sure thing."

The vampire looks earnest, and its words carry the same conviction. Tempting to believe if one wants to be tricked into his death. Ludwig chases away his doubts and states his first question. "How did you break out of your cell."

"I, I punched it," the vampire replies. A beat later, its eyes narrow. "Hey, you called it a cell. Why was I in a cell? Who put me there? What is this place?" Whatever fear Ludwig had managed to induce earlier has disappeared. Now the vampire appears to have gained a backbone.

A soft click sounds as Ludwig tightens his grip on his weapon. "You agreed to cooperate."

"Yeah, and you know what? I told that one to not shoot me again—" the vampire jerks its head toward the glass, presumably meaning Arthur. "—and look what happened! So I think that I have earned the right to be a little difficult!"

 _So the one-way glass isn't as one way as we thought it was._ Ludwig tries for the upper hand again: "Try anything, and I will sh—"

"—shoot, I know. I heard you the first time."

In his earpiece, he hears Gilbert let out a low chuckle. _Only he could find humor in this._ But, seeing as Gilbert isn't too concerned with the vampire's newfound belligerence, Ludwig loosens his grip on his gun. "Fine. But answer the question first. How did you get out of your cell."

"I told you. I punched through the door."

Ludwig clenches his jaw. "Fine. We will come back to that question. Next: how old are you."

"Older than anyone here, probably, I think." The vampire concentrates. "Sixty… Sixty-five. Yeah," he nods. "Sixty-five."

"No." If possible, Ludwig's expression grows stonier. "Answer correctly."

The vampire has the audacity to scoff. "Listen, I'm answering every single one of your stupid questions 'correctly.' You're just saying that they're wrong. And that? Is a you problem."

"You are a vampire."

" _Really_?"

Ludwig allows himself a grimace. There are no protocols for dealing with snarky vampires. Or snarky anyone, for that matter. Most were hesitant to give Ludwig any sort of lip. If someone talked back to him, they did so once. Only once. "You saw the cells." He tries once more for intimidation. "I am sure you know what you were meant to do here."

"What, be an ice popsicle? Real fancy freezers you got up there. But I'll tell ya this." It fiddles with something behind the chair, and a second later, the vampire holds out a pair of handcuffs and jingles them in Ludwig's face. "I got free. How's that?"

His training takes over before Ludwig has time to take in a breath. In a flash, he has aimed his weapon at the bullet hole between the vampire's eyes, courtesy of Gilbert. Before his finger can pull the trigger, Gilbert taps into his commlink. "No. See what he does." Ludwig grapples with the order for a second. If shooting the fang means it will just wake up later, then. Fine. "Affirmative. But get Kirkland in here."

Said agent enters seconds later, followed by Gilbert. They join Ludwig in the front of the room and match his stance: taunt, severe, and guns out.

The vampire's eyes lock onto Arthur.

Arthur seems to take the action as a challenge. "We already know a lot about you." The wall behind the vampire seems to receive his words, for Arthur refuses to look at the creature. "There is no use in lying. Tissue samples, blood samples, muscle samples, even the length of your fangs. They all tell us how old you are and at what age you were turned, and how many humans you've killed." At the end of his spiel, a caustic sneer has spread across Arthur's face.

Ludwig glances back at the vampire. It seems as if Arthur's bluff is under consideration. The fang's head is lowered, its brows scrunched in concentration. Then, its head snaps up with a look of triumph. The three agents jump back and raise their weapons, but the vampire only demands: "If you've got so much info, why the questions?"

"The data is… inconclusive," Ludwig inputs quickly. "That is why. Now answer this: how many humans have you killed?"

"Loads," the vampire deadpans. "Hundreds. Thousands, even. I am truly the epitome of a monster." At Arthur's expression of disgust, he rolls his eyes. "Jesus H. Christ! What is wrong with you people? Zero! I've killed zero people. Dumbasses," he adds under his breath.

Surprised, Gilbert lets out a bark of laughter. At Arthur's glare, he covers the action with an exaggerated bout of coughing. The latter agent huffs and turns back to Alfred.

"Impossible. A vampire of fifty years with a kill total of zero? You're lying."

"I'm not! And you're one to talk. About lying."

Ludwig trades a glance with Gilbert.

"Excuse me?" If possible, Arthur's tone turns colder. "Me? A hypocritical accusation coming from you, a creature that has been lying about its existence for half a century. I'll have you know the only thing you accomplish with lying is delaying the inevitable. You will leave this room unconscious."

The response seems to inspire the vampire to form a bluff of its own. "Oh, really?" It crosses its arms. "I think I could break out of here if I wanted to. Burst through your steel doors, dodge all your guns. They don't work on me. I beat your system, and you don't know how. Those cuffs?" It dangles the pair of restraints in the air, the metal ends warped beyond reconstruction. "I broke them. I wasn't supposed to, was I?" The vampire tosses the cuffs at Arthur's feet.

Arthur glances down at the cuffs then back at the vampire. "Oh?" he growls. "I could pump your body full of these bullets and you'd _never_ wake again."

"Admit it. You have no idea what to do with me."

"Negative. I can think of many things we could do to you."

"And not a single one will work, I guarantee you."

"You bluff."

"So do you!"

"I do not."

"Do too!"

 _What happened back in Stratford upon Avon?_ Ludwig wonders, watching the back-and-forth with interest. He's tempted to let the two continue, but the mounting aggression is far too turbulent. "So why haven't you attacked yet?" Ludwig cuts in. "If you are so powerful."

"Attacked?" The vampire leans back. "Why would I attack? I'm not, I wouldn't, no. Just, no." When none of the agents reply, it looks further distressed. "That's not why I'm here, is it? Is it?" The vampire stumbles on its next question as if afraid of the answer. "You guys think that I'm— that I'm dangerous?" The vampire looks like it wants to say something else, but it holds itself back. Instead, it stares at the three agents, its eyes painfully wide.

 _Blue eyes,_ Ludwig notes. _Not red._ He understands Arthur's truculence. Nothing the vampire has said or done has made any sense. Even Gilbert appears to be contemplating their next course of action with unprecedented caution. But on the thought of the commander… Ludwig finds Gilbert's silence worrying. He has said next to nothing since entering the room. A silent Gilbert means a variety of things, none of them good.

"Hey, vamp," Gilbert calls out suddenly as if he'd read Ludwig's thoughts. He'd been leaning against the glass at the head of the room, his arms crossed. Now he stands at attention, observing the vampire through narrowed eyes. "What's your name?"

"Alfred," offers the vampire, not without trepidation. "Alfred F. Jones." After a moment, it adds, "Glad you finally asked a question that I can answer."

"As am I." A pregnant pause fills the room as Gilbert scrutinizes the vampire again. Then, he grins and pushes off from the glass.

 _Scheiße._ Ludwig knows that grin. He knows that look in Gilbert's eyes. He's lived the consequences of that look far too many times in his life to be ignorant of its implications. "Bruder." Ludwig steps forward, reaching out to place a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Before you—"

"Alright." Gilbert sidesteps out of Ludwig's grip. "I have got it!" He spins his weapon in his hands and shoves the gun in his holster. As if the action isn't dangerous enough, he strides towards Alfred with a swanky sort of confidence that has no place in an interrogation room occupied by one of the world's most deadly creatures. "If you are who you say you are, or what you say you are," the commander grins, sticking out a hand to the vampire. "Then I have a proposition for you... Alfred."

* * *

 _ **A/N**_ **: Wig? Snatched. Beans? Ate. Hotel? Trivago.**

 **By the way, thank you so much, guys, for answering the question I put out last chapter. I have a lot to think about. I think we're gonna go both. And this story has gone through so many changes. More than is acceptable with consistency. I'm trying, my dudes.**

 _ **ANOTHER QUESTION.**_ **How do you guys feel about including these other characters? Ludwig, Gilbert, eventually Romano and Feliciano? It depend on where you want the brunt of the story to focus on. Obviously, for plot reasons, we've got to include other characters, but I'm thinking about a subplot. So it really depends on if you guys want other characters to have more "screen time." So comment if you want it to focus on** _ **just**_ **Alfred and Arthur, or include some of the other characters as well. And if there's a character you think should be in here- working at POE or as a vampire- please tell me! Thanks so much!**


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